


Hunting Lotuses

by zatto (glukose)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Development, College, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Magic, Male-Female Friendship, Manipulation, Minor Violence, Rivals to Lovers, Skyrim AU, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, more like enemies with benefits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 119,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukose/pseuds/zatto
Summary: There's a quiet moment of Ravaena inspecting him from where she's seated on the bed, and then she sighs, folding her hands on her lap. "So what? He's a Bosmer, of course he knows how to hunt. But does he know how to use magic? You're an Altmer, Jeno. He's not a threat."Future Skyrim AU in which Jeno maneuvers around his past mistakes, and Donghyuck is a convicted criminal of thought.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Lee Jeno
Comments: 76
Kudos: 66





	1. How to Start a War

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fiction is inspired by The Elder Scrolls games. It's set in the same universe, however, I altered it to fit my own narrative. This isn't a warning, just a notice, and extensive (or any, really) knowledge on the games isn't required!
> 
> I will be quoting the official lore (that I have tampered with) at the beginning of each chapter to introduce the races, because those in my opinion might be the most confusing. We'll also be exploring them as we go.
> 
> The main plot ensues by the end of the chapter :}
> 
> If there’s anything you’d like to ask me, you can do so [here](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat).
> 
> [Inspo for the Summerset cuisine](https://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/comments/7akcks/summerset_cuisine_the_weirder_scrolls/)

> " _Not a single isle at all, but an archipelago of two major islands and a dozen smaller ones, the land called Summerset is the birthplace of civilization and magic as we know it in Tamriel. On its idyllic, sea-kissed shores live the Altmer, the High Elves._ _The Summerset Isle is a green and pleasant land of fertile farmlands, woodland parks, and ancient towers and manors. Most settlements are small and isolated. The Isle has few good natural ports, and the natives are unwelcoming to foreigners, so the ancient, aristocratic high culture of the Aldmer is least affected by Imperial mercantilism and modern society.”_

He’s lying on a featherbed of fragrant spring grass, the gentle whisper of his Altmeri name blowing with the wind and into his ears. It croons at him to close his eyes, like an ancient lullaby sung by those who’ve laid and lived here centuries before him. _Rest your head on the green pillow and your soul in our arms,_ their faceless, tender promises seek to pacify him but to no avail. There’s not a trace of peace within him.

It’s not the unrelenting waves that stir the pot of his being, clashing against the rocky cliffs about a dozen purple maple trees away from him, screaming as they meet their end. It’s not the sun that furrows his brow and forces him to squeeze his eyes shut. 

It’s the frustration and disappointment he’s brought back home from foreign lands — hideous souvenirs that he’s ashamed to present his family. He’s even more ashamed of keeping them, and has no emotional strength to figure out how to get rid of them. So for now, he’ll exhaust himself until his body turns sluggish and a heavy veil of sleep draws on his eyelids. And to do so, he’ll bleed himself of his remaining magicka, the life force of all magic circulating his body alongside blood and lymph. 

He directs the energy to his palm. A blue sparkle flashes faintly before flaring up. He then sends it off into the air with an excessive flick of his wrist, a second sun now shining directly above him. A minute passes and he launches another ball of light to replace the one that had just dimmed down. And then another one. And then one more. After his fourteenth demonstration of this novice-level spell, he finally feels himself drifting into a calmer state. That is, until the fifteenth orb suddenly flies out of his reach right after being cast. 

He sits up in a flash.

The person who ripped it out from his possession is standing approximately five meters away. The spark dances a last slow waltz in the cage of his fingers before smothering it to nothing.

“You came here to sulk after your failure and now you’re asking to be banned from the College altogether?” 

“So you’ve heard,” is what he replies, relieved to find the face of the person he’d secretly wanted to see most, and at the same time embarrassed because said person already knows. 

“Even if I hadn’t, your gloom is too telling, Jeno.”

_Jeno_. His elder brother is the only member of his family that dares remind him of his second name - his human name - so casually. It’s deemed extremely inappropriate here, in Summerset Isles, to refer to one of Altmeri descent using their ‘international title’. Even the most progressive (and money hungry) of Altmers, who discreetly attempt to sell globalization ideas to those around them for brownie points handed out by the Imperials, shy away from accidentally disrespecting a High Elf with an extensive ancestral lineage and an oversized ego. His brother Meanellor Lorathael, human name Johnny, understands the pride of an Altmer all too well, but being the one who’d picked his younger sibling’s international title, he considers himself most entitled to it. It’s a spoken form of intimacy between brothers, and now that Johnny had called him Jeno a second ago, he knows that there’s no real anger in what he’d said, only a caring forewarning. 

“How come I didn’t sense your presence until now? Don’t tell me... were you maneuvering with Muffle?” 

Johnny’s paternal mask cracks at the confrontation and he breaks out into a familiar smile. Knowing and mischievous. He’s no longer the wise, older brother, who's rushed from their manor all the way here at the first sight of a forbidden practice just to lecture him on the principles of the universal law against magic. He used Muffle, a spell that is listed under the apprentice category, one that Jeno’s been eager to learn ever since Johnny came back from his second year in the College of Winterhold, a prestigious mage school where he was granted the opportunity to learn that of which many were so skeptical of. It was the turning point in Jeno's simplistic, callow life back then. Being barely fourteen, amidst the teenage sibling banter and rivalry, having his older brother sneakily use Muffle to deaden his footsteps and catch him off guard had him cursing his fate for being the lastborn.

“And you were about to scold me just now, weren’t you? Hypocrite,” he scoffs.

"The spells I use aren't as flashy as yours," Johnny says, "I know you're excited to show off your newfound skills after coming back – I was like that too – but pay more heed to your surroundings."

"Who'd dare tell on me?"

"Who? Would you like me to list all the potential blabbermouths?" Jeno knows it was a rhetorical question, but if encouraged, he'd most likely proceed with it.

Jeno thinks. There's guest Imperials roaming around the plains of their isles, always _coincidentally_ appearing where magic happens to be utilized without a permit. Then there's some Altmers, their own kind, that will trade a fellow in for a shiny coin and an 'exemplary citizen of the world' badge. Lastly, his mother’s disappointment, which would spark upon seeing him risk the stability of the bridges she’s been trying her hardest to build between the two races, would be most ruinous. 

He sinks back down on the ground. He’s an inconsiderate son, has always been. And now he’s an incompetent one, too. Just how many ‘in’s’ can he collect before learning a lesson, or even better, two?

With everything now snowing under his senses, Jeno drapes an arm over his eyes. If given a choice, he'd rather not let Johnny see what kind of face he’s making right now, and expose how weak he is to be upset like this. “I still don’t understand why you left that position for me.” 

The self-deprecating statement is directed at himself, more so than at his brother. Johnny remains silent, so Jeno seizes the opportunity to spill it all out in the open, for everyone in the Isles to witness his harbored confession. The wind, aiming for the southwest, will carry his words like a dandelion seed, starting with his home isle Auridon, the crown jewel of the Summerset Archipelago and gateway to Tamriel, and culminate in the word reaching the depths of the Mainland. Jeno’s ears will then redden with raw embarrassment and shame, but it doesn't matter. He has to be frank about this for the first, and hopefully last time. 

“I never questioned myself about whether I wanted to take this path, I want it, I think, but now I don’t know if I’m even capable enough to begin with. The masters at the College only noticed me, because you and I share the same surname. You probably would’ve secured the warrant during your first year, had you actually tried. I have brought nothing but dirt upon the name of Lorathael.”

Jeno laughs bitterly, his heart a couple of pounds lighter, mind: a couple of decibels louder. Ever since he got home, he had been meaning to tell someone, preferably Johnny, that he’s simply not cut out for this. What he wants or doesn’t want isn’t the deciding factor; it’s whether or not he has the ability to do it. It’s simple. A simple fact. Nothing is and never will be more simple than this. And nothing has proven to be more difficult than announcing this revelation, for it’s escaped his lungs, entered the world, and become real.

However, Johnny doesn’t comment yet again, and at first Jeno appreciated the spacious silence that he let himself fill in the most personal kind of way, but it is about time he stopped talking to himself.

“Say something. Or are you too busy laughing?”

And say something Johnny does. Or, rather, whistles. It makes Jeno spring back up, only to discover his brother standing farther in the tall grass, waving at something or someone before letting out another sharp whistle. There’s a brief moment of anticipation, and then two white beasts emerge from the sea of green, jumping at and attacking Johnny. An offence of love. It turned out to be their loyal gate guards, a cherished pair of strong male Laikas which their father had brought from Skyrim — the wintry city of Windhelm — in celebration of his elder sister Agnae’s seventeenth birthday. Back then, Jeno had been ten summers old and the number has doubled since.

It seems like he’d really been voicing his feelings to no one but himself. The aftermath of opening up was beginning to cast bleak shadows of regret backstage, like a sobering whiplash punishing him for relieving the grip on his judgment. 

The dogs start running to him in giant leaps, their tails already wagging, long tongues bouncing on their chins. Dovah and Kiin. Both very similar, almost identical, the only difference being the former’s darker streak on its forehead and the latter’s left ear that never fully stood up. 

Shortly after, he has an armful of soft fur. Dovah licks at his face while Kiin turns over expecting belly rubs. Jeno can feel the unpleasant thoughts and emotions getting sucked out of him like poison from a snake’s bite. Two clueless, ignorant beings that accompany their owner regardless of who he is, what the world thinks of him and the wrongs he’s committed, always greeting him like a decade has kept him locked away even when it’s only been less than thirty minutes. Born to hunt but live to follow, this careless existence is a free form of the purest therapy. 

“Have you blown off enough steam?” Johnny asks as he comes up, crouching down to scratch Dovah’s back. “I spotted Agnae taking a walk with the dogs, then noticed a shift in your mood so I left. As I’ve always said, you got to leave the bar while it’s fun, before the drunk peacocks start fluffing up.” 

“I’ve never heard you say that.”

“Because you’ve always been too young to drink with me.” 

Jeno nods, “Fair.”

As the youngest sibling, not only was he stripped of any knowledge regarding the practice of magic, given that the College of Winterhold only opens their doors for beginners ranging between nineteen and twenty-five years old, he was also excluded from all the fun activities. All the mischief. There was an age difference of five years between him and his elder brother, and at the age of fifteen Johnny was already picking fights with the other wealthy elven kids at his school, regardless of if they were his age or older, because according to him they were ‘ _too overweening for their own well-being_ ’. He had also smugged alcohol into their manor, gated not only from intruders, but also from such improprieties. Jeno, then a little, petty ten year-old pipsqueak, would tell on him out of jealousy every now and then, earning him the title of a snitch. There had been various attempts of him trying to reclaim his name, but by the time he reached his adolescence, both his siblings were in their twenties and had no interest in dragging a teenager along in their endeavors. 

“You’re old enough now, though, and come to think of it, we’ve never come together to share a drink.”

“We have not,” he nods again.

“And I might just have the perfect idea to fix that. I was thinking about it the other day, actually. Let’s meet up in Winterhold once you’re back in the College. I’ll be passing through Skyrim some time next year. Should be around winter. Nords are loud when drunk; crazy, but fun. The High Elves can’t even compare with their flowery vine and snobbish talk. It’ll be a blast, you’ll see.” 

Jeno cracks a smile. These self-deprecating comments on their race are _very_ much like him, and although he often can’t understand Johnny’s damaged sense of pride, he’s become rather desensitized to it and rarely feels the need to express his disagreement anymore. A strong gust of wind joins their conversation and swipes past their noses, causing Jeno to notice that his brother’s previously blonde locks have now become dark and wind-tossed. He didn’t pay it any mind earlier; he was too busy _feeling_ , and then there’s the fact that it’s been more than two years since he last saw Johnny. Jeno suspects he doesn’t necessarily like visiting Summerset Isles. 

“Your hair... When did that happen?”

“I dyed it when I was staying in Cyrodiil.” Johnny answers offhandedly.

Cyrodiil. The homeland of the Imperials, the Empire, the epicenter of all (bad) that happens in Tamriel.

“What would father say?” 

“Let’s see...” his brother muses, “He’d probably call me a disgrace and accuse me of being a puppet strung along by imperialism. Pretty sure he said something among those lines to me once. But, mother liked it. She said it suits me more.”

Another thing Jeno has a hard time digesting. Altmer, The High Elves, stand out in various ways. They’re among the tallest of humanoid races, taller than most humans and much taller than other Mer, or in other words, the elven-kind. Their hair is light and their skin maintains a very pale gold hue, not quite the pale white of the northern human races such as Nords or Bretons, the latter populating the province of High Rock in Tamriel. The Altmer surpass every other race in magical aptitude. They’re intelligent and noble. The gods blessed Johnny with all mentioned qualities — he’s tall, taller than Jeno. He’s smart and magically-inclined. And yet, he does everything in his power to diverge from the set norm, and even mocks those who decide to follow it. Don’t get it twisted, Jeno isn’t a faultless, proper Altmer either. Many would consider his behavioral choices to be the product of his mother’s ‘demoralizing’ teachings. His brother, however, takes it to a whole ‘nother level.

“What about you?” Johnny asks. “Your hair’s gotten pretty long. Now that’s a look father would be proud of. True Altmer, you are.” 

The wind smites again, and Jeno runs a hand through his hair, both to brush it aside and feel the length for himself. It’s become less common for a man to grow long locks, yet in the past all of Mer, would it be High Elves or the other elven descendants, would take pride in and display their braids. 

“I didn’t have the time to cut it. Weirdly enough, it started growing faster after I first used magic.”

“Mm. That’s only natural,” his brother hums, “Mer are magical beings, but we suppress that part of us. Once you awaken your inner magicka, it's like you’re reborn from stone anew and allow the life juices flow freely within. That’s what Faralda preached, at least. Master of Destruction... Is she still teaching?”

Jeno confirms that indeed she’s still teaching, and Johnny tells him the only thing destructive about his favorite teacher is her talkativeness and a scarily keen eye for otherwise insignificant details. Jeno laughs, for he has witnessed this himself and has been under her radar, fortunately or not. They stay silent for some time and give way for the ancient whisper to take over, Dovah and Kiin staying uncharacteristically still on their laps. Even Johnny falls prey to the serene noise surrounding them and seems to have travelled to some faraway place through the extensive corridors of his mind. Could it be Cyrodiil, where he’d abandoned one of his Altmeri attributes? Or, perhaps, Winterhold, where their future selves are getting dead drunk without a care in the world? Jeno will never know – unless he asks, of course – but he doesn’t dare disturb this beautiful serene noise. 

“Enough idling about.” Johnny eventually cuts through the fog of mutual overthinking and stands up. “And self-loathing,” he adds after squinting at Jeno who showed no intention of moving from where he's planted. “Lady Grayore and her daughter has promised to swing by this afternoon. Though I have a feeling it’s on Sir Grayore’s behalf.” 

“Ravaena?” Jeno rises like a sprout at the first drop fallen from a rain cloud and trails after Johnny, suddenly interested. “Why hasn’t she informed me?”

“Who knows, maybe she wanted to surprise you.” 

As they make their way towards the manor and away from the cliffy coast, the turf grows taller and taller, until it wraps around their legs in a silent plea for them to stay just a little bit longer. Jeno listens in and stops momentarily, reaching down to pluck a young blossom of a proscato flower hiding in between the grass, velvety and violet.

"I hate surprises,” he mutters.

* * *

Apart from Johnny's occasional provocative comments, the dinner has been going oddly well.

“My, my! I’ve never had such interesting variation of pyul!” the woman says after tasting a spoonful of plum-colored pudding. "So this is the taste of taro grown in Auridon my husband's been talking about."

Lady Grayore is a woman of culture, of strict tradition, ever so interested in and delighted even by the slightest displays of Altmeri heritage. One doesn't have to be familiar with her philosophy to know her values: it's in the way she dresses, sapphire and emerald high neck dresses, uptight at the top but flowy in the limbs; traditional elven designs integrated with simplistic elements of modern fashion. Detailed high-end jewelry: silver necklaces and brooches that often resemble the motives of Summerset. It's in the way she styles her hair: half-up buns and dotted thin braids with white-cyan ribbons and golden pearls. One doesn't have to know of their family to spot the relations either, for Ravaena Grayore is a younger version of her mother. In their presence, Jeno has to convince himself they're not just mirages from weighty historical volumes collecting dust in their library.

“And how did you make this, exactly?” she turns to look at Jeno’s mother Taalia Lorathael after she scoops another spoon, letting it drip down into the bowl to test its consistency. Pyul is the staple food of Summerset cuisine that comes from the versatile taro plant's root, and was eaten by the lowest of goblins and the highest of queens in ancient times; at present, by the rich and the less fortunate alike.

“I’m happy you like it, but it’s Agnae who prepared it,” his mother says.

“Oh! Is that so? You know how to cook, young lady?” 

“Not only does my sister know how to cook, she’s the best cook in all of Auridon. Summerset, even.” Johnny interjects. 

Lady Grayore spares a dismissive glance his way and takes the napkin placed next to her plate. She dabs both corners of her mouth. “I believe Miss Agnae has a tongue that's still intact and can speak for herself," she shoots back, folding her hands on her lap: indicating that she's done eating.

"She does, of course, but you put my dear sister in a situation where she has to boast about her skill. And Lorathaels don't boast, we _show_ , madam." It was a very subtle, easily disregardable remark, but to Jeno the subtext of ' _unlike some other families present here_ ' couldn't be more clear cut. Not only to him, it would appear, for Lady Grayore's half-smile freezes on her pale face. "I, on the other hand, can say these things without any modesty. I've tried almost every cuisine here in Tamriel and hardly any rival what our in comparison tiny island has to offer. Especially when it's my sister who prepares it."

No one says anything for a good quarter of a minute. Lady Grayore shifts in her seat. Johnny's leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Although he's staring at the table devoid of emotion, Jeno can tell he's pushed under a triumphant grin. As for everyone else, including Jeno, they're waiting with their ears perked up and their breaths bated.

After clearing her throat, Lady Grayore looks at his mother in questioning manner once more, "Meanellor is still travelling?"

"Why, yes. He just returned home this morning from High Rock–"

"Morrowind," Johnny corrects.

"Morrowind. With a different country each time it's hard to keep track,” she smiles, “He’ll be setting off next week to... Cyrodiil.” Her eyes seek reassurance as she mentions the destination, and Johnny gives a tiny nod. 

“Next week?” Jeno asks and as a result inserts himself into the conversation for the first time. There’s surprise in his voice. Surprise and disappointment. “But he just got here.”

Lady Grayore places a hand over her heart, and looks at him as if his words concerned her deeply; like he's merely a pitiful child asking for grown-up sympathy. "Mrs. Lorathael, excuse me for chiming in, but is it really fair to let your son wander like this? I didn't want to say this, but it's unfit for the Altmer, especially for someone noble like Meanellor, to leave Summerset for such long periods of time. Not to mention his siblings seem to miss him. Don't you miss him, too?"

Jeno immediately looks for Johnny's reaction. There are no instant fireworks, strangely enough, but his brother's bitter smile replaces his previously indifferent demeanor. He's holding it in.

"Besides, from what I've seen today, your son has picked up quite pesky human habits," she continues, "his lack of manners at the table remind me of the surly Nords. Not to mention his hair... If i were you, I'd pluck the weed while it hasn't started growing."

Ravaena, who's seated next to Lady Grayore, covers her mother's hand with hers where it's placed on the marble table. "Mother," she tries.

It takes a minute for Jeno's mother to respond. "Thank you for worrying about my family, Mrs. Grayore, but–"

"I think we drifted too far from the previous topic. Mrs. Grayore, didn't you want to know how I prepared this pyul?" Agnae asks.

Johnny breaks into a snigger at this sudden turn, clearly dissatisfied. Knowing him, he was lying in wait for the situation to unravel further and give him a good enough reason to raise a storm. Jeno doesn't know his elder sister well enough to guess what she made of Lady Grayore's incriminating observations, but her tolerance for such things seemed to waver depending on factors unknown. One thing he does know though, is that she chooses her battles.

As for Jeno, he's in two minds about these opposite worlds without a doubt existing next to one another, but struggling to coexist. The day Grayores set foot in Lorathaels' ecosystem, chaos was bound to ensue. He had been waiting for the sharp clash of the two forces the moment he was informed of Lady Grayore's awaited appearance, and the expected clash brought more entertainment than it did shock. But entertainment isn't the sole reason he prefers to sit on the fence. Lady Grayore likes him best, his gut feeling tells him, and he won't refuse that validation. She likes him best, that's why she allowed her daughter Ravaena to befriend him when they were but children and keeps on allowing their friendship to go on. Another thing that pulls at his gut feeling is that she doesn't like him _too much_ , because he's a Lorathael, and the name is tinted in Lady Grayore's eyes. For that reason, he must be careful.

Jeno looks over at Ravaena. She's sitting opposite to him, perfect posture and clear eyes, her attention focused on Agnae's instructions on cooking the dish. His stare must've triggered her senses for she turns to look at him as well. She offers him a smile.

They're the same, he thinks. They're both situated on this thin fence between proper and inappropriate, ancient and modern. Despite her looks, public image and last name, throughout his memories, she's always been someone with an open mind, someone who doesn't dismiss matters just because they go against what she believes in. She accepted Jeno's juvenile anger back then when everyone else tried to eradicate it, and embraces his current Altmeri stance when his family doesn't. Underlying intentions, future goals and visions – he spells them out for her when he's lost and hunting for advice, because there isn't a person more familiar with the position he's in, not when it's something as intimate to her as it is to him. They're two sides of the same coin, both surrounded by extremes. The iron grip of tradition squeezes Ravaena and limits her slightest movement, meanwhile Jeno's family is lenient to the point of him carrying their legacy alone like a cross on his back; because of this he once wore the shoes of a villain, a clunky pair his character has since outgrown.

And so Ravaena offers her smile, and perhaps amidst the chaos, she's finding comfort in evaluating their friendship, too.

"By the way, Joroth, how was Winterhold?"

His stomach twists at the mention. "It was... really fun. I learned a lot," he attempts to beat around the bush, but it'd take a miracle for Lady Grayore to not ask _that_ _question_. And Jeno wasn't born under the lucky star of Azura, of this he was proven again and again; miracles didn't creep around every corner, or in his case, any corner.

"You did? That's wonderful. The Atlmer are incomplete without their magic, and I could tell it's shaped you into a fine young man right away," she gesticulates with her arms to emphasize just how big of a difference she's noticed in him and Jeno thanks her. "And I heard... you were after the Azura's Warrant of Blessings, though you were unsuccessful."

"That'd be correct. But there's always the next year," he says, or rather recites what his mother had told him when he first appeared at the door step, devastated and too ashamed to look her in her loving, way too forgiving eyes.

"Hm. Well, you're not wrong about that. Not everyone can obtain it during their first year, only the most skilled of mages."

"And it's important to note such mages existed when magic was still practiced out in the open," Johnny breaks in – an eager intervention. "I don't think it's fair to leave this detail out, Mrs. Grayore. Now," he stands up, "I'll be seeing myself out. Agnae, thanks for the meal, it was delicious. Miss Ravaena, you haven't touched deep-fried seastars yet, and you should. You won't find them anywhere in Summerset, I guarantee."

Lady Grayore bids farewell to his brother with a sour 'tch'. Soon everyone is back to conversing about trivial matters, how seastars of Auridon beaches are equivalent to Morrowind’s eyestars and how pest-like they are; even the weather would be a more significant topic to discuss. But the resonating sound of the closing doors to their dinning room gets trapped within Jeno's chest. Azura's Warrant of Blessings. Blessed is the one who obtains it, now and forevermore. The amount of magicka the person was given – was blessed with, the way he manages to cultivate and expand on it lays the foundation of success. Everything after that is a matter of luck, or how Jeno likes to view it, hard work. He understands Johnny's sentiment – it held some spite, it held some truth. But Lady Grayore is right – he didn't try hard enough; he wasn't enough.

But it won’t happen again. He’ll try harder. He’ll do something, anything. He’ll outsmart fate. He’ll outwork luck. He’ll fabricate blessings. If he can’t even manage that, then he'll be unworthy of carrying Altmeri blood in his veins. His hand is squeezed into a fist under the table, but his increasing breaths and heaving chest pull in the reins. Now, he’s forced to leave these plans for a later time. For the past few years, he’s been the tyrone of his anger, controlling it instead of being the one controlled, but it’s been hard to keep it that way as of late. 

The mental image of acting out in front of Lady Grayore seems to do the trick, and Jeno relaxes his brow. During his blank-out he’s been staring at the half-eaten seastar on his plate like it had personally offended him. 

“I didn’t know seastars could taste this good. If being a mage doesn’t work out, you’re welcome to be a guest chef at our manor,” Lady Grayore laughs and Agnae dismisses the compliment by waving her hand in the air. “Mrs. Lorathael, you know, I came here because of urgent matters, but I was beginning to forget about it with how much fun I was having.”

“Urgent matters?”

“Very urgent. I’m sure you’re aware of the current situation in Cyrodiil. The Imperials want to send an envoy to partake in our discussions starting next year. And I'm sure you know what that means with elections starting in summer. We have, I mean, my husband and yourself have the right to decline the suggestion — at least that’s what they said it was — but knowing Imperials they expect a positive answer,” she leans in towards Jeno’s mother and lowers her voice, letting her and everyone else in the room in on a secret. “I heard the person they picked for the position is none other than Mater Garral. A very sly man, or so people say.”

“Really? People say that? The committee informed me of this decision last week. I was the one who suggested Sir Garral fit the criteria best.”

Lady Grayore blinks. She pulls her face away.

“You did?”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Grayore. I’ve talked to the man before. His goals align with ours. I’m actually very surprised people talk that way about him. He seemed like a very intelligent, considerate man.”

Lady Grayore doesn’t say anything for a minute, her lips pulled taught like she just ate something sour. 

“But,” she finally starts, “is it okay to let an Imperial spy on us from up-close, considerate or not? They've already set foot in our country and don’t intend on leaving, and now they want to let in their roots and control us from inside.”

Taalia shakes her head. “Not only is it okay, it’s necessary. We have to work with them. Believe in me and my decision. Sir Garral is one of few Imperials that is on our side — on magic’s side,” his mother says with such a confident tone that it’d be hard not to believe in her. 

Ravaena and Jeno exchange looks. Her hand is placed on her mother’s yet again, but this time she’s squeezing her trembling fingers. Lady Grayore looks like she’s close to giving the matter up, but something in her eyes lights up at last minute. 

“I'll let you know their goal is to slither in as many Imperials to power in Summerset as they can. First they’ll be there to observe the discussions, sure, but soon enough they’ll want to _lead_ them. These are not empty accusations. We’ve seen it happen before in Tamriel, and they’re now actively looking for any cracks in our walls. Your kindness is the crack, Mrs. Lorathael. You may be in charge of our party now, but who’s to say that Garral won’t replace you.”

Everyone at the table is anticipating his mother's answer. She seems to be looking for one herself.

"Joroth, Agnae, why don't you check on Meanellor?" she asks instead. "These political topics are probably boring you. Ravaena, you're welcome to join them and get some fresh air, too."

In secret, Jeno had already been webbing a good enough excuse to leave, so he takes the offer without a second thought. As he pushes back his chair and stands up, his sister sitting beside him grabs his hand. "It's not boring. Joroth should be listening. He's an aspiring future politician, after all. It wouldn't hurt to hear what mother is dealing with right now and what he'll have to take on in the future."

"That's true..." Lady Grayore agrees.

All eyes have turned on him now. He looks down at his hand where Agnae is holding on him and feels betrayed.

"...if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the restroom first."

He heads for the door after freeing his arm, closing it fast once he reaches it. The possibility of Lady Grayore making a face at him fleeing like this causes him to cringe, but at least he's alone now. Jeno sighs, relieved, but mostly tired, and rests his back against the door, the handle poking his side awkwardly. He'll still have to see the lady and her daughter off. That's good, in a way, for he didn't get a chance to talk to Ravaena.

"You've had enough too, huh?"

Jeno jumps at the sudden question. The one who proposed it — Johnny — is standing in a mirrored position right next to him.

"You... you scared the hell out of me just now. What are you doing here? Thought you left the manor like you always do."

"Couldn't leave mother alone with that blood sucking vampire. Though I didn't want to look at her scary face, either. So, here I am."

"Creeping at the doors and eavesdropping? What are you, a thief?" Jeno asks in disbelief, still recovering from the shock. His brother must've used Muffle again to erase his presence. "And mother wasn't alone."

"As if you and Agnae would say anything to defend her."

"Defend her from what exactly? Lady Grayore isn't the demon you maker her out to be. She wishes good for our family."

Johnny gives him a genuinely confused look. "Are we talking about the same person here? Jeno, wake up. She knew how confident you were about getting the warrant during your first year, and look what she did. She feasted on your broken confidence! A demon, I tell you!"

"Shh!" he shout-whispers. "Are you insane? Stop yelling."

"No, it's you who's insane for wanting to look good in her eyes. You'll never please her the way you want to."

The anger he thought he left back in the dinning room comes back full-force, and there's something venomous now writhing at the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell Johnny how wrong and even envious he is that Jeno has that shroud of respect still intact. The handle at his back moves, making him pull away and he forces the poison down his throat. Ravaena's head appears from behind the door.

"Is everything okay?" she asks. "We thought we heard some noise."

"Everything's fine now," he assures her, and Johnny finds something on the ground to look at instead. "Did we disturb you?"

"A little bit."

She doesn't look very disturbed, however, and is wearing a thankful expression as she eagerly shuts the voice of her mother behind.

"Joroth," she starts.

"Before you say anything, I'm sorry for using up the restroom card," he's quick to put her on pause. Jeno made a gateway for himself without any concerns for his likely hopeless friend.

"It's no big deal. I was going to ask if you're okay. I should apologize. I think my mother shouldn't have said that."

"You _think_?" Johnny asks in that challenging tone of his, very out of place, and Jeno wants to shut him up with his fist. Instead, he ignores it and speaks again before Ravaena can dwell on his brother's antics.

"No, don't apologize. Your mother is stressed and concerned. Besides, what she said wasn't wrong."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see his brother roll his at the response. If they stay here with him, Johnny saying something hurtful to Ravaena will be inevitable.

"Would Lady Grayore be okay with us going to my room?"

"No one expected you to come back. I don't think they expect me to, either," she smiles as she takes the initiative to lead them there. Jeno follows right after, but turns to look at his brother one last time. He's instantly met with a disappointed shake of his head. He knows exactly what he's thinking. But Jeno isn't the divergent member of their family, he's not freed of the responsibility for their future – Johnny is. And what Johnny makes of him right now is unfair and unfeeling.

They walk through the maze of white stone and glass that is Lorathael's manor: a minimalistic, harmonic interior and extravagant exterior with curved gables and ceilings a giant would have trouble scraping his head on. The building is a visual echo to the High Elves’ appearance, but even then it's not comparable to the ones in Summerset, where cities such as Alinor exist – a city made from glass and insect wings. Jeno once read the Imperial ambassador's account, where their cities were described as 'a hypnotic swirl of impossibly high towers, designed to catch the light of the sun and break it to its component colors, which lies draped across its stones until you are thankful for nightfall.' Sometimes this works against his favor, for Jeno's room is at the very west end of their manor, forever trapping the scorching summer sun within the space. He often has to leave his room until it sets and hang around in their chilly masonry of a living room.

"Doing your homework as usual?" Ravaena asks, her eyes rummaging through the spread of papers on Jeno's desk. The latest newspapers, political books written by the Altmer and the Imperial alike, as well as other papers his mother provides him with. In the middle on top of everything sits an old issue of a newspaper with Mater Garral's face on the front page. "You knew about her decision?"

"She asked for my advice. Always does."

Ravaena flips through a few pages, not really reading the contents inside. "Be more careful next time. We depend on you more than you would imagine." She leaves the newspaper alone and looks at him. "Oh, sorry! I really don't notice when I start speaking like my mother."

Jeno doesn't think much of it; he's done talking politics right now, and just walks closer and pulls her in a silent but telling hug. He didn't plan on doing it, but now that they're alone – he's alone with all that has happened – there was a sudden need that surged upfront.

"How have you been?" he asks. 

Ravaena stays quiet in his embrace for a second, only to pull away and hold onto his arms. Her face is nothing short of confused. "I've been... fine. This is new?"

"That's good," he says, the ghost of sadness passing through and casting shadows on his otherwise relieved smile. It is new. Jeno isn't one to seek comfort in others' warmth. Ravaena wraps her arms around his back once more, as if not wanting to let this rare opportunity slip past her fingers. They stay in this unusually close for their friendship position for some time. Through wide windows, Jeno watches as the tall grass dances in the wind. The scenery provokes his memory and he pulls away to scavenge his desk for something. Under a paper about current nationalism of Summerset, he finds the big blossom of a proscato flower he'd picked earlier and reaches for Ravaena's wrist, placing the blossom in her palm.

"Do you still drink proscato tea?"

Ravaena beams at the small violet gift with eight petals. "I do! Thank you. My father has been missing the sweet taste of it, too. It's a bummer they don't grow in Summerset."

"I figured you wouldn't have the time to go pick some with me and our family doesn't hoard them. So, for today it'll only be a single flower."

"That's more than enough," she assures him and sits down on his neatly made bed, placing the blossom on her knee. "I add some herbs of my own. You should visit us when you're in Summerset so I can prepare some for you. Won't your mother return to your second house in Alinor?"

"I don't think she will this summer. Maybe when I'm at the College." Upon mentioning it, a sudden realization hits him. While he was away spending his first year in Winterhold and experiencing the kind of cold that scratches against your skin and freezes your blood solid, Ravaena celebrated her nineteenth birthday surrounded by the warm breeze of Summerset winters. The doors of the Collge of Winterhold are now open for her just like they are for Jeno. "Wait, you're nineteen now."

Ravaena nods. "That's what I wanted to tell you. I'll be attending the College starting this autumn."

He joins her on the bed, smiling, but the sadness is now gone. This is great news. "Really? You won't attend a university first?"

"My mother changed her mind.”

This is the first time in weeks Jeno has felt this delighted. "Look," he shows her the spell his brother caught him using earlier, the orb of light glowing a soft blue. The color varies depending on the user, and Jeno has used more magicka than necessary for a novice spell just to make it shine even brighter.

"Candlelight." Ravaena names it, her eyes absorbing the blueish hue and reducing it to a single sparkle that reflects on them. "So yours is blue. Very fitting."

Jeno cocks his head. He didn't expect her to know what it's called. The only way to practice and learn more about magic is by attending assigned classes in the College of Winterhold and getting one's greedy hands on its stowed spell tomes. The only legal way, that is. Its students take an oath to never speak of magic in detail outside of the province of Winterhold, one of few places where mages don't have to contain themselves left in Tamriel. Even the library stacked with all sorts of books from all sorts of corners in their manor don't shelter a single page of magical instruction — it's only vaguely mentioned here and there. But knowing the name of a spell is not a crime per se, and it's entirely possible to get hold of such information. Unlikely, but still possible. 

Ravaena seems to catch on to what he's wondering about. "I did some research. It's one of the first spells they teach you during the first year, right?"

"One of the very last, actually. I wonder what color yours will be. My friend found out his was green and said he wants to sue the College. It's his least favorite color— ah, right. I still have to introduce you to him."

"A friend?"

"Mm. He's an Imperial, but lives in High Rock. He wants to be a diplomat so we kind of joke around about working together in the future." Jeno laughs as certain events start coming back to him. "A really nice guy. I think you two would get along well."

Ravaena says nothing and looks down to straighten her long black skirt, then stares at the withering proscato blossom.

"You've never left the Isles before, have you?"

"No," she answers shortly.

"Then you need a human name. Have you thought of one yet?"

"No. You know my mother is against that.”

"She doesn't have to know. I'll call you by it only when she's not around."

Ravaena seems to think about Jeno's proposition, her hand sliding up and down her thigh, smoothing the fabric. She looks into his eyes. "Okay. Give me one."

"Hmm... Raven."

"Raven?"

“You look like one," he playfully tugs on the long sleeve of her black shirt and gets a carefree giggle in return. Truth be told, the name has already lived in Jeno's head as a possible future suggestion ever since he learned of the fact that Grayores condemned the concept of international titles and would never give their daughter one. It was born from a silly wordplay on her name, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to fit her character. Drawn to darker colors and flowy clothes, she was a raven surrounded by doves.

"Raven it is then."

A knock on his door accompanied by his sister's voice lets them know of Lady Grayore's plans to depart, and after seeing each other for the first time in nine months, they have to say goodbye. Not for long, Jeno thinks. As soon as the summer sets down and autumn fogs the horizon, they'll meet again, but not in his room. Not in Summerset at all, but at the very top of Tamriel between thick stone walls of the College.

* * *

He's sitting on his bed with a candle flicking beside him, saving him from drowning in dusk along with the rest of the room. Dovah is lying at his side. Jeno strokes his beautiful fur while holding a book in his other hand. It's a memoir of Nelacar, a High Elf mage that got exiled from the College of Winterhold for "bad research". Even though he was the one to come up with Azura's warrant of Blessings, the unlawful digging into soul gems and Azura's star cut his career short. To keep his identity cloaked, he was referred to as "an elven mage who studies the stars" by those supporting him and his experiments. 

Reading about his journey – his mindset, decisions and actions derived from pure nihilism and oftentimes foolishness – has Jeno putting down the book and glaring at the preserved cover every other chapter. The man wielded the Staff of Arcane Authority, a magical weapon that would cause Mer and other creatures alike to flee from combat with cold feet, which only served to infuriate him further. Altmers didn't use cheap tricks like terror magic to shaken their opponent. In hopes of finding some sort of hint that could help him perform better the upcoming year, he continues to read through gritted teeth.

Dovah raises his head to stare at the doorframe, his ears perked in alertness. Naturally, Jeno turns to look as well and anticipates the appearance of someone. Not a second later, Johnny walks in, crashes on his bed and has the audacity to act surprised when Jeno frowns at him.

"I promise I didn't come here to lecture you for earlier."

He's lying on the bed, chewing on abatar nuts and looking around Jeno's room, petting their dog – doing everything but acknowledging the daggers his younger brother is sending his way.

"Oh, this guy," Johnny points at the book. "Did you know he was a necromancer?"

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"A detestable fellow, but he knew his craft."

Necromantic cults were fairly popular in most regions. Even the Isles had some small mage groups who practiced the art of enslavement and utilization of involuntary souls and their bodies. The Imperials regarded the dark art as something relatively profitable – mages from all of Tamriel purchased corpses and souls for philosophical research, and did with them as they wished in private. In the end, it was declared illegal even before the revolutionary ban of magic.

"So, where did you and Ravaena go?"

"We came here."

"I see. What did you guys do?"

"We talked."

"Mm," he nods and throws a nut in the air, but fails to catch it with his mouth – Dovah gets to it first. "What did you talk about?"

"If you crept outside my door instead of the dining room, maybe you'd know."

"Come on," Johnny groans, "I'm really interested in what Miss Grayore is like. She's always so quiet around me."

"I wonder why that is... Could it be because you always ridicule her mother right in front of her?"

Johnny makes a scandalized face at this. "Ridicule? Nothing of the sort. I just point out her hypocrisy and..." he pauses. "Perhaps ridicule is the right word. Either way, when you two left, I heard her bring me up in the conversation again. She's the obsessed one, okay? She asked mother how I make money and pay for my travels, and then she dares to comment on my manners."

While Johnny is caught up in his recounting, Lady Grayore's question, too, pokes at Jeno's curiosity.

"So how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Make money."

There's no immediate response. To Jeno's knowledge, Johnny categorically refuses to take from their mother, but he's never heard him mention anything about a job before.

"I make some now and then, here and there."

"How?"

Johnny sighs. "Even your questions are starting to sound like theirs. I'm losing my younger brother to these vipers right in front of my eyes."

Jeno attempts to kick him off his bed, secretly amused by the dramatics, but doesn't succeed. They start wrestling and he's being pinned down, when his competitive side decides to pay him a visit and he throws his brother to the side, grabbing one of the pillows and repeatedly smacking him with it. The book is flung on the ground as a result of their scuffle while Dovah wags his tail and barks at the sight of a fight. Johnny shout-laughs something about surrender.

"Okay, okay! I won't bad-mouth your girlfriend and her mother anymore," he says, but yelps when Jeno threateningly raises the pillow again.

"She's not–"

"I know. But does she know?"

"If you don't leave my room right now, I swear on Magnus I'll–"

"I'm leaving. See? I'm leaving," Johnny raises his hands to his chest, maneuvering around an annoyed Jeno in order to get to the door safely. He's a step away from setting foot outside his doorway, but freezes the last second and Jeno thinks about throwing the pillow at his back to urge him on.

"By the way," he starts, his tone now undeniably serious, "you asked me why I left the position for you this morning. You know why it can't be me, and why it has to be you, right?" Johnny turns to look at him without twisting his body, and his invasive stare makes Jeno avert his eyes. "You're good enough even without the warrant. Nobody expected you to attain it on your first year, only you."

Jeno doesn't say anything. He won't entertain his brother's opinion, because he'd already formed his own back there at the table. Any shift or movement of the house of cards he's built anew, even slight, would result in its collapse and therefore in Jeno's loss of purpose. He had first built it on top of his name, his roots and his origin, but it had come crashing down together with his naïve expectations. Being an Altmer wasn't enough. He now picked different cards; hard work, effort, the crossing of lines if necessary. At the very top sits the card of Azura – the tip of the pyramid that acts a beacon, gives meaning to his day. If Johnny blows his judgment on this one too, then there'll be no ground for him to stand on.

"I guess I did come here to lecture you after all," he laughs, then pats the doorframe twice before disappearing into the dark of the hallway. "Goodnight."

It was especially hard for Jeno to fall asleep that night.

* * *

Menacing towers stand tall and visible even in the dead of night. Jeno stills to take in the greatness of them, the heavy suitcase in his right hand encouraging him to move on. He’s travelled a good three miles on foot since stepping out of the train and refusing a horse; his back was begging for mercy having sat for so long. There’s something different about the air of Winterhold — it’s clean of rules, of restrictions that bound the world and it’s hard to take a full breath without feeling dizzy; it’s silent to the point a crunch of leaves would be considered noise. 

Jeno tightens his grip around the handle. He’s been waiting to return. It’s different from when he first saw the outline of the College midst the morning fog for now there’s no naivety and thrill in the unknown. He knows what to expect. The idle days – months – reduced his initial disappointment and anger, and he was left with nothing but occasional spurs of motivation that made rotting at their manor that much more torturous. It was an uneventful summer for his mother, which meant it was the same for him, but Jeno did try being productive once by entering the deepwoods and practicing magic in secret, and as a result contracted bone break fever. Bedridden, he could feel his magicka stagnate, but at the end he had no one to blame but himself. That's why he's arriving at the College only now – almost a month into the school year.

Following the stone roads and paths of Winterhold alone at night has him looking behind his shoulder, checking every little swish and murmur. He could've left Auridon earlier to arrive while the sun was still over the horizon, but decided not to hurry. Today's the last Saturday of September, which means the students are swirling within the courtyard, getting acquainted, conversing among themselves and with the professors. Every last Saturday is a day where curfew is forgotten – some students even engage in night hunt. Call Jeno pretentious, but it felt right showing up during the Collections.

He huffs when the path leading towards the College starts going uphill and switches to his left hand to hold the baggage. There's a narrowing forest to his left and something — some creature — is making noise in the bushes, causing Jeno to jump back. Winterhold shelters all sorts of fauna, both magical and not, and he's heard stories of it attacking those passing by not once nor twice. There's a moment of silence and something cracks and rustles again. Jeno shoots an orb of light into the void this time.

Nothing. He can't see anything. It'd be brainless to stand around and wait for something dangerous to actually appear in his vision, so he fastens his steps and rushes to reach the outer gates. He passes a small village of stone and wooden buildings – inns, blacksmith shops, the housing of some of the staff – and feels safe straight away. The College of Winterhold is situated on a cliff overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. This little village was once a prosperous city, but much of the cliff fell into the sea, taking nearly all of it with it, though somehow the College had largely been untouched by the damage. It now resides on a free-standing pillar of rock and ice. 

Jeno walks past the first gates that lead to a narrow stone bridge, stopping halfway where it circles around a well of light. A demonstration of any spell is all it takes for it to flash a beam upwards, letting those inside know that a mage is entering the premises. By the time he reaches the second gate, a Nord by the name of Tolfdir greets him.

"Well, well, if it isn't young master Lorathael. A little bit late, aren't ya?"

"I'd say more than 'a little bit'," he smiles at the old doorkeeper, but refuses to receive help with his baggage. "It’s alright, sir, I know where my room is."

"Oh, do ya? A lot of third-years from the previous year left and while distributing the empty spots we accidentally gave yours to a first-year."

"Excuse me?" It's not exactly something he expected to happen. Jeno was given a good spot on the ground floor and didn't intend on losing it. "To who?"

"I don't know who got it, but your room is now on the third floor of the Hall of Attainment. Still don't want me to take your bag?"

He hesitantly hands the man his suitcase. Both of his palms are throbbing from carrying it for this long and it only takes a mental image of the six flights of stairs that await them for him to change his mind; he can already feel the calluses forming. Some snot nosed first-year is getting his dorm along with the luxury of not having to break a sweat every time he wants to head inside his room.

Just as he anticipated, the round courtyard is well-lit and full of life, of Nordic tunes and lyrics, dotted with huge barrels that leak mead and groups of mellowed out students surrounding them. He can see their heads turning his way. Some are known faces, some – completely unfamiliar. He's captured the attention of tonight, slithered in between of youthful chatter and that allows him to forget his annoyance, especially now that he noticed two male figures nearing him.

"Could you place it in front of my door instead?" he asks the doorkeeper, "I have something to attend to."

"Sure thing. Have fun, kid."

Jeno sees him off with a subtle glare. Getting called a kid by a Nord, no matter how much older, would leave a bad taste in every Altmer's mouth. The pair approaches him and Jeno settles for a more welcoming expression.

“There you are!" one of them greets him excitedly and holds onto his shoulder, shaking him almost violently. "I was starting to think the fever ended you."

Renjun Treberia. A witty Imperial in Jeno's age group, who's come here more for the experience than magic itself. He's also helped Jeno adapt to the ins and outs of a mage scholar's lifestyle when he had just enrolled and knew no one but himself. For that reason he dismisses the otherwise impolite greeting, even finds the sight of his friend pleasant. He was expecting to be hit by a stream of questions, but Renjun must’ve heard of his condition from one of the masters, presumably Faralda. The other guy, who from the looks of it is a student, is smiling so brightly at him that Jeno almost feels awkward for not knowing who he is. Should he know him?

"I'm Jaemin Treberia, Renjun's cousin," he extends his hand and Jeno takes it. "I'm a first-year here at the College. Renjun has been telling me so much about you that I can't believe you're finally standing before me. How was the trip? Did you pass Cyrodiil or went straight up north?”

"Jeno Lorathael," he delivers the response, still registering the amount of information told through the young man's grin. He wasn’t aware Renjun had a cousin who was planning on joining the College, and everything after that revelation went straight pass his head.

Jaemin, however, doesn't give him enough time to think of a polite enough answer. He doesn’t let go of his hand either, but pulls on it, leaning in. "That's not your real name, is it? What's your real name?"

The action takes him by surprise, but he laughs it off in that airy, confused type of way. No Imperial has demanded his Altmeri name before. "It would be Joroth. Joroth Lorathael."

"Joroth," Jaemin echoes. "Interesting. I heard you're a politician, Joroth."

'Not yet," he eyes Renjun. When the guy said he's been told a lot, he meant it. "But yes, I will be one. Why?"

"Nothing. Just your eye-smile is very convincing. You'll be a good politician, I can tell."

He doesn't know what to say to a backhanded compliment as such, but he knows not to offend Renjun's cousin. There's an air of strict confidence around him, but his actions speak in leisure and Jeno doesn't want to take risks, not before knowing who Jaemin is exactly. He'd normally choose to smile, but the guy saw through it the first time. Thankfully, something steals Jaemin's attention away, along with Renjun's, and Jeno turns around to see the students he previously walked past gathering near the gates.

"What's the commotion about?" Renjun wonders what they're all thinking aloud. His cousin throws an arm around Jeno's shoulder, completely disregarding his personal space, and tilts his head towards the target of their curiosity.

"Let's check it out."

They're immediately met with _'wow'_ , _'woah'_ , _"isn't he a first-year'_ and other amazement filled sounds and remarks of those circling the yet-unnamed object. Jeno quickly grows even more curious and ditches the two Imperials, going around to the other side where there's less heads blocking the view. In the middle of the fuss there stands a man, and he's proudly holding – flaunting – a defeated crystal-skinned snake-like creature in the air. It's an Ice Wraith, Jeno recognises, and the sight of it deeply surprises him. It's very unlikely for frost-based creatures to appear in the low-grounds during the warmer seasons, especially Ice Wraiths, given they love hiding in the snow in ambush. The next thing his eyes trip over is the bow secured on the stranger's back, and it's nothing like other bows he's seen before. A bow made out of bone.

He can't see the hunter's face, but judging from his height his race must be of Men, not Mer. A taller male approaches him – a Redguard Jeno assumes – and they start talking about something; with others loudly commenting on the Ice Wraith and the stranger's successful night hunt, it's hard to make sense of it.

"...and then – you won't fucking believe this – when I was about to lose sight of it, a ball of light appeared," the new hero of tonight reveals and the Redguard towering over him makes a shocked expression, then laughs. Jeno suddenly remembers how he was walking up the hill, how he heard strange noises in the dead darkness of the forest and how, out of suspicion, he used Candlelight.

"What color was the light?" he asks sharply, and the chatter around them starts dying out. Everyone's looking at him now, and his rather pushy request for an answer feels a little out-of-pocket. But Jeno's too invested to back off, so he stands with his back straight, and entertains the possibility of being involved in the finding.

The young man turns to him, finally, and Jeno finds himself surprised for the second time. His guess about the stranger's race was totally off. Or was it? He's not sure. At the first glance, the young man is a Bosmer, or how Imperials like to call it – a Wood Elf. Darker skin, pointy ears, short height. Yet, each of those features is somewhat half present in the stranger's appearance; almost watered-down. Instead it's: caramel skin, only slightly pointed ears, average height that lead Jeno to believe he's human, not Mer. Even his face is softer compared to most elves. Could it be...?

It's as if the young man says ' _two can play this game_ ' and looks Jeno up and down in return, with a tad more disdain than curiosity.

"Why?" he asks, squinting.

Jeno opens his mouth to talk, but the incoming wave of another's reluctance and attitude hits him, and he closes it immediately. He might've forced his question out in a harsher manner than he'd wanted, but the not-so-civil response has him taking a step forward. Almost — for Renjun takes an unexpected leap into his vision and he only manages to assert dominance in theory.

"Ah, Renjun!" the Bosmer greets him, glad or annoyed — Jeno can't tell. "You're here to give me a congratulations hug?" he opens his arms, but hugs the icy snake instead when Renjun rejects him.

"Ha! You wish. We're not that close."

"You're right. We're _too_ close."

Renjun, however, doesn't seem very fond of the Ice Wraith receiving affection, nor himself, and gives the guy a look reeking of concern. The stranger hands the loot to his Redguard friend, who stays away at a close distance. The audience scatters.

"I'm here to buddy you two up. Jeno, that's Donghyuck. Donghyuck, that's Jeno. He's the guy whose room you were given."

Jeno snaps his head to frown at Renjun. Hearing him say it so casually, so nonchalantly rubs him the wrong way. The news seem to have the opposite effect on Donghyuck, though. "You should've said so right away. I guess I should be nice to you, then. Thanks, now I don't have to climb up the stairs and I have the best roommate imaginable."

"What happened to 'Renjun, you're the worst'?"

"Shh! I'm talking, you'll have your turn," Donghyuck shakes his head, "he's the worst, isn't he? I should reintroduce myself. I'm Donghyuck Lumbervale." He extends his gloved hand. Jeno spares a glance at it without moving his head. Unlike Jaemin's, he doesn't take it.

The hunter's head hangs low. He laughs, his shoulders shaking, and pulls back. "Of course, of course. The gloves. Where are my manners? I'm standing in front of an _Altmer_ , after all."

The way he says it – no, the way he _mocks_ it paints Jeno’s vision in red. Yet, it’s familiar, although he can’t pinpoint in what way. Donghyuck slips one of his leather gloves off, but Jeno stops him before he can get to the second one.

“Don’t bother,” he says, his tone ice cold. ”I won’t shake hands with a half-breed.” 

He can feel how heavy his words are, and he can see them weighing down the Bosmer's smile. From behind him, like some sort of bodyguard steps out his Redguard friend and looks ready to take offence in place of Donghyuck.

“ _Don’t bother_ , Yukhei,” Donghyuck echoes while putting the glove back on. For a short moment, Jeno notices a patch of fair skin peeking through. “I think I'll survive without shaking this gentleman's hand. Let’s bring this Wraith to Tolfdir. Oh, one more thing before we go," he makes eye-contact with Jeno, "come by to collect your books before I throw them out."

He watches their receding backs. The sound of the young man's laughter is agonizingly loud to Jeno's ears. It's the first time they've ever met, but something tells him it's supposed to be this ear-splitting, because he's supposed to hear it, and he's supposed to hate it.

"What was that about?" Renjun demands, clearly displeased. It's the first time Jeno sees something akin to anger decorating his friend's features. "You can't just say that to someone, Jeno. Even if he was mixed, what's wrong with that? Maybe I don't understand what you elves have against each other, but that was just unnecessary."

"Exactly. You don't understand."

Renjun pushes him on the shoulder. "Go grab some mead and relax. You're moody today. You're not yourself."

Part of him wants to tell Renjun off. Part of him wants to ask what he thinks Jeno's 'normal' behaviour is.

"I swear Jaemin will love to hear about this. Both of you are rotten," he continues, disbelieving his own words.

"Where did he go?"

"He was dragged away by the third-years. I don't think we can retrieve him now."

Jeno watches Renjun's mouth moving, speculating on what will happen when the news are broken to Jaemin, how upset the guy will be he missed the 'show', and how Renjun himself feels about the whole situation. Donghyuck is brought up again, but this time he mentions Bretons who populate the province of High Rock – the residence of Renjun's family – and compares their human and elven ancestry to directly interracial individuals. Jeno is sure the points he brings up are worthy of discussion like they always are, but he's too bummed out thinking about the encounter he had not even five minutes ago, and there's a sense of pure pettiness coiling around him when he remembers the Bosmer is Renjun's new roommate and he hasn't witnessed any feelings of disappointment from his friend.

"...I see. I think I'll head to my room now. Make sure you drink for the both of us, okay?"

"But tonight's the Collections. You sure?"

"Like you said, I'm not myself today. It's better... it's better I rest."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow then. Make sure you don't _accidentally_ offend someone on your way."

He gives a non-verbal _got you_ and leaves to search for comfort within the western tower - the Hall of Attainment. It branches out from the stone wall, which wraps around the courtyard and stands alarmingly close to the abyss that is the sea. There's no sound in this world that could get past these thick walls, and for that Jeno is grateful, even when he's overslept a considerable number of lectures the previous year. The ground floor is split into eight sections – eight sleeping quarters, with two, sometimes three people occupying each of them. The focal point is a well of magical energy, similar to the one at the gates. Jeno snorts to himself when he notices that the hanging College banners are still moth-eaten.

Climbing up the six flights of stairs proves to be less exhausting than his annoyed mind made it seem to be, and he finds his suitcase silently awaiting him near the entrance of one of the rooms. He leans down to grab it, pushing the door, but someone calls out his name before he can enter.

"Joroth!"

He doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

"Ravaena."

She's standing in front of the sleeping quarters opposite to his and suddenly his spot doesn't seem so bad anymore. Soon enough he has an armful of her, which throws him off balance at first, but then he remembers the early summer afternoon and the view of dancing tall grass. Back then the idea of meeting her in Winterhold was just wishful thinking; it seemed so far away.

"Why are you sitting inside?" he asks, his eyes switching between her face and her black flowy clothes. He has to make sure she’s not just a figment of his bleak imagination. 

"I was about to leave... But I could ask you the same. Shouldn't you be celebrating your arrival with friends?"

"I wasn't going to, but, since you're here..." Jeno pushes the door, holding it open for her.

Ravaena refuses to enter. "You go in first. I have something I want to give you."

"Oh? I'm getting a present?"

"You'll see."

She twirls around excitedly, and Jeno stands there for a little too long. He forgot he was supposed to enter – was too busy smiling like the biggest idiot. Upon walking inside his sleeping quarters, he quickly realizes he won't be having a roommate. It's smaller than the rest: one bed, one wardrobe, one table, one wooden chest for storing personal items. Jeno wasn't even aware there were single rooms. He's both relieved and unsure; the naked, minimalistic room only emphasizes the _single_ part. After putting his suitcase next to the door, he planks himself into the armchair – the perfect mold, and he melts into it. Even in his old room they only had uncomfortable stick chairs, so that's the first plus, he supposes. But then again, he wants his old bed. Together with Renjun he carved out his name into one of the wooden legs with the intent to come back someday to visit his old quarters – not this year, because he was sure he'd get the warrant and could focus on his politician degree instead – and check if the memory of them was preserved.

He rubs the crease between his eyebrows. Ravaena is taking long enough for his thoughts to jump to another place entirely. Now he’s entertaining himself by tapping the armrest and watching a fly that’s stuck between the double pane glass window. Someone softly knocks on the door, that someone being Ravaena, and Jeno finds her standing outside his doorway with a clay mug on a little plate in her hands. It’s filled with dark, fragrant liquid and he recognizes the homey scent of Summerset wild flowers at once. She nudges him to let her inside and he plants himself into the armchair again, but this time there's the smell of proscato tea tickling his nose, alluring him.

"No wonder it took you this long. You went down to the dining room?"

"Mm. You didn't visit Summerset, so I decided to bring it to you."

"Sorry," he smiles against the rim of the mug, "I really couldn't– ah!" he hisses when the hot liquid burns the tip of his tongue.

"Careful, it's still hot," she giggles, "it's mainly proscato tea, but I added some herbs of my own, too. I don't know if you remember."

"I do," Jeno says, not hesitating. "Next time you should use fire magic to boil it faster. Ah, nevermind," he withdraws. Ravaena's barely a month into her learning, there's no way they introduced Destruction spells to the first-years yet. Jeno doesn't hold back from turning the tea lukewarm with Frostbite, tho. The visible energy covers his palms like a glove and if one were touch it, they'd get bitten by the magical cold.

"You're totally showing off," she rolls her eyes at him.

"You better get used to it. This is Winterhold and here we use magic to get by."

"Is that so? Are you sure you can get by with the three spells you learned last year?"

Jeno makes a pained sound at this. She went for his throat, and there was no holding back. "I underestimated you. You're dangerous."

"But my tea isn't. Drink up before it gets too cold. You're post fever, besides, the proscato flower relaxes your mind. It can help with insomnia, too."

"I needed that."

"Why, did something happen?"

Something _did_ happen. "It's nothing serious, I'm just annoyed. This isn't my room from last year. Some first-year took my spot. A Wood Elf."

"Wood Elf?"

"Yeah. I... overreacted and called him a half-breed." But he did threaten to throw Jeno's books away, so he can’t say he regrets it that much.

Ravaena's expression morphs into something more serious. "I know who you're talking about. I had my suspicions, too. He's definitely a half-breed, but his parents are both Bosmers, so it just doesn’t make sense."

Jeno puts the halfway emptied cup away on the wardrobe and shifts in his seat. "You know his parents?"

"I don't, but I heard he's from a good family. I mean, he must be, that's why he's here." It certainly is unusual for Bosmers to attend the College of Winterhold; the student body is predominantly Altmers and Imperials. "They probably expect him to attain the Azura’s Warrant of Blessings, so that's why he's after it, too."

The news force Jeno out of the armchair. He leaps to his feet. "He's what?" The sudden movement rocks the chair back and it collides with the wardrobe, causing the mug to wobble, but Ravaena's quick reflexes save it from falling to its demise. She looks up at him, concerned, but he only walks to the window and fumes at the view outside.

"Joroth, he's just a Bosmer," she attempts.

"Bosmer or not, he took down an Ice Wraith today. I should've known what was up when he mentioned Tolfdir."

The Nord is not just your everyday doorkeeper; nothing in this college is just this or that. First, he's a top-notch master in Alteration and a trainer in its use. He's adept in defensive magic, but most importantly, he's part of the Azura committee; the only present member in the College, which automatically makes him the supervisor of those who aim for the warrant. Bringing magical loot to him is basically securing points and stepping up the ladder that leads to it.

"An Ice Wraith? How did he find one in this weather?"

"Must have driven it here from the mountains. I think I unintentionally helped him, too."

"What do you mean you helped him?"

Jeno simply shakes his head instead of answering, "I don't know for sure."

There's a quiet moment of Ravaena inspecting him from where she's seated on the bed, and then she sighs, folding her hands on her lap. "So what? He's a Bosmer. Of course he knows how to hunt. But does he know how to use magic? You're an Altmer, Joroth. He's not a threat."

She's right. He's an Atlmer and no other race is as intertwined with magic as Altmers are. Naturally, he's at an advantage. The non-threat, however, has stolen his spotlight, his bed, his roommate and now Jeno learns there's something even bigger yet unchecked on the list. Within him, a cold flame flares up. His want for the warrant is brand new — not at all how it was the previous year or even ten minutes ago. He's now gambling his Altmeri pride, and perhaps, this is the push he needed but didn't have up until now.

Perhaps, this is the real beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew you've made it to the end of the first chapter, i appreciate it, here are your flowers 💐


	2. Get in Line

> _"The Bosmer are the elven clan-folk of Valenwood, a forested province in southwestern Tamriel. In the Empire (Cyrodiil), they are often referred to as Wood Elves, but Bosmer, or the tree-sap people is what they call themselves. The Bosmer rejected the stiff, formal traditions of Altmeri high culture, preferring a more romantic, simple existence in harmony with the land and its wild beauty and creatures. They are relatively nimble and quick in body compared to their ‘civilized’ Altmeri cousins, who often look down upon the Bosmer as unruly and naïve.”_

“... and recently, the College of Whispers has made inquiries as to the status of our College here in Winterhold. It’s no secret their facilities had been shut down along with the ban of magic, however, there’s been a rise of ideas to restore its activity. Our College has thus fur declined requests for direct meetings at the order of the Arch-Mage Aren.”

Faralda, a High Elf who specializes in teaching the school of Destruction, walks leisurely with her hands behind her back in front of the second-years. All thirty-two of them. Her master mage robes, that seem to be tailored upon her request, reach the stone tiles, masking her steps.

“Aren believes that although them initially contacting us is innocent enough, they were sent with a particular motive in mind,” she continues, “It’s entirely possible that they’re aiming to find supporters for their organization. Us, teachers and trainers. Your parents. You, students, are no exception,” her eyes find Jeno as she says it.

They’re standing in the Hall of the Elements, where most theory oriented lectures take place. It’s the first room upon entering the main tower; large circular room with a high ceiling supported by a ring of pillars. Faralda’s voice sounds booming in the acoustic space. 

“They focus on research banned by other magic permitted institutions, such as Conjuration and Necromancy. The College of Whispers is hoping that our College also supports these avenues of research. Which... we do to an extent,” she takes the final step, stills and turns to face her students. “Does anyone here know what Conjuration spells our College teaches?”

The quiet shuffle of them turning to look at one another, waiting for someone to speak up is incredibly loud with their master anticipating an answer.

“Conjure Familiar,” Renjun whispers beside Jeno.

“Say it,” he whispers back, colliding their shoulders together. But Renjun scrunches his nose for a ‘no’ and nods at him to do it instead. 

“Conjure Familiar,” he repeats, only louder. The stares of his classmates bore into his side profile, but he’s more interested in Faralda’s reaction. Her sharp intuition never misses, for she doesn’t skip giving Renjun a knowing look, too. 

“Correct. Thank you, Joroth.” The open use of his Altmeri name doesn’t make him bat an eyelid, it’s just another Altmer on Altmer interaction, but that isn’t the case with other races present in the room. Some direct their curious eyes at him once more, but this time Jeno doesn’t ignore it. One of his male Imperial classmates falls victim as he stares back with doubled intensity. The guy instantly reverting his gaze is satisfactory to no end. 

Faralda’s voice roars again. “Conjure familiar. A novice-level spell, yet we couldn’t introduce you to it last year. You weren’t quite ready yet. But you are, now, and it’ll be a stepping stone between novice and apprentice levels.”

Apprentice. Johnny’s favored Muffle is apprentice-level. Jeno will finally be able to counter his attacks. 

“Summoning a familiar to aid you isn’t easy and requires a lot of magicka. I’ve had students think they’ll just wave their hand in the air and have a beast dance to the tune of their flute. I’m warning you now — leave such delusions behind the closed doors. You’ll be given a month to get your grip on this spell, so don’t waste time out in the town. Do you understand?” she asks everyone, but the interrogation feels somewhat personal, and those who she’s trying to reach can probably feel it, too. Last year there were a few names in their age group that were notorious for slacking off at every given opportunity and visiting the inns of Winterhold more often than their sleeping quarters.

“You might also be thinking why I’m telling you this. I’m a master of Destruction, not Conjuration. Well, let me tell you one thing, and it better stay between us. Our respected master Phinis Gestor doesn’t have the... let’s just say he’s not the best with words, that’s why I agreed to introduce the second-years to Conjure Familiar and give you this speech. But fear not, he’s an expert, otherwise he wouldn’t be here teaching you. Ah, that's right! You already met him last year, so you know what I'm talking about." 

If one asked Jeno to take a wild guess and fill in the blank, he’d say Faralda just barely refrained from exposing their Conjuration professor’s lack of _manhood._ With her strong character already in mind and now this, it doesn’t take a lot of figuring out what it is exactly that secures her the spot of his brother’s favorite teacher. 

Faralda quickly, but intensely scans through their faces, “I can see you’re tired of standing and listening to me. You’ll be soon dismissed, don’t worry. I got a little sidetracked. About the College of Whispers... Falling in with them would only draw unwanted attention to our College. If they go through less official channels and try to contact you directly, refer them to our Master Wizard. Say as little as possible to avoid compromising our neutral position. As for Conjure Familiar, you can find master Gestor in the courtyard starting tomorrow. Now you’re dismissed.”

She watches the students scatter with stern, but kind eyes, flee through the massive wooden doors like they're prisoners released free at their master's word, and there's nothing they want more than to see the pale light of day. Jeno doesn’t go yet; something’s telling him Faralda has a word or two to say to him. He makes sure to hold a leaving Renjun by the arm.

“This won’t take long,” he tells him. Once everyone has gone out, their master approaches them, as expected.

“Joroth,” she starts, “I’m happy to see you’re all well. Or are you? Show me a spell of your choosing.”

He instinctively showcases Candlelight. 

“...I see. It’s a little weak, even for a novice. You'll have to work on your magicka flow. It seems bone break fever took its toll on you. So, what were you doing in the deepwoods?"

Jeno hesitates before answering. She already knows _what_ he was doing, but even then he's forced to lie. "Just venturing."

"Mhm. When I was still wet behind the ears, I, too, used to _venture_ inside of deepwoods, where no foreigners dare to enter and where I could practice magic freely. I commend your dedication, but not your foolishness." She's done with him for now, and her focus shifts on to Renjun. "And who do we have here? Young master Treberia. I was wondering if you perhaps have a younger brother amongst the first-years?"

"Not a brother, but a first cousin, ma'am."

"Close enough. I figured you two were related right away; same last name and all. Though, your cousin is quite different. You can tell he's from the Empire. A brave young man, and he spoke to me like I was his friend." Jeno straightens out his growing smile. It's quite amusing listening to her talk (when she's not talking about him); it's almost as if everything she has to say about a person is a lighthearted insult or a joke, but it's wrapped in a thick enough layer of misleading words and cotton to soften out the blow. What she really meant is: Jaemin is cocky. "The first-years this year are an interesting bunch in general. Very diverse, too. Altmers and Imperials make up the majority per usual, but we got Bretons and Redguards. Bosmers, even. I haven't taught a Bosmer in years."

Jeno nods after each sentence, since Faralda is mostly speaking to his face and he's making sure he looks invested. At the mention of a Bosmer student, he thinks of Donghyuck and his conversation with Ravaena. Naming his feelings would prove to be slightly difficult: it's a mixture of lingering annoyance and propelled motivation, the latter coming into play after their master's evaluation of his current relationship with magic. He must work harder. He must compensate. Jeno checks Renjun's reaction. His friend is looking at him desperately, but not obviously as Faralda is still standing in front of them and engaging them in, what it now has turned into, daily talk.

"Excuse us, professor, but Renjun and I must go now. It was really nice to chat with you, and I'd like to wish you to have a good day from me and Meanellor," he cuts in before she can twist the topic into a new one.

"Oh! Next time you'll have to tell me how your brother is doing, then. I wish you boys a good day as well, and take it easy. But not you, Joroth, you have a lot to work on."

They bow their heads and smile while moving towards the exit backwards, and Renjun semi-drags him out of the hall when Faralda isn't looking. They push the wooden doors that are at least twice as tall as they are, given they're the last students to leave and no one's awaiting the next lecture in the courtyard. Jeno takes a few steps so that he can stand in front of Renjun, who's currently relaxing against the wood.

"Remind me why I stayed there with you," he asks, a little fatigued.

"We're going to the town. I want to rent a weapon."

"It's training season again?"

"Always is."

* * *

Winterhold is a ghost town on early Monday mornings. Apart from the local mages and shop workers peeping out from inside the buildings, only the regular visitor dew sticks to the windows, the grass and the branches, and one of them swipes past Jeno's face when he isn't looking ahead. He wipes his wet face with the sleeve of his shirt; at least it didn't poke his eye out.

"Tall people problems," Renjun concludes.

"Pfft. I'm not that tall. It's you who keeps pushing me to the bushes."

Renjun is quick to find the silliest solution by settling for the middle of the road. "Is this better?" he shouts and Jeno has to take a look around in case they're inconveniencing someone's peaceful existence. In case _Renjun_ is. He shakes his head and keeps walking closer to the edge.

"You know, I was just thinking about what Faralda said," Renjun rejoins him. Jeno can soon feel the branches threateningly nearing his face again.

"About your cousin?"

"No. About the College of Whispers. Don't you think they'll try to contact your mom?"

"Oh, definitely," Jeno confirms it. "My mother is interested in Restoration magic only, though. Well, mainly."

"Right, right... And you?"

Jeno quirks a brow in an attempt to give Renjun a puzzled look, but the sprawling branches in his peripheral decide otherwise.

"My mother's interests are my interests."

"I thought you'd be interested in Alteration or Illusion," his friend tells him after a minute of them silently approaching the destined place. Jeno holds onto the wooden railing and gives way for Renjun to enter first. The question, the assumption: he's still digesting.

The interior of the store smells of wood, of tree resin and it's a scent Jeno has grown to love. It's not nostalgia, but a striking break from it. The Summerset Isles are mellow: made of marble, of porcelain and glass, nothing is harsh; even the strongest wind blows all quiet and velvety. Skyrim, the province in which Winterhold lies removed from the rest of the continent, is as rough as its natives Nords. There's one behind the counter, watching with a smile specifically tailored for his customers as Jeno inspects the weapons hung on the log wall.

"Lookin' for something?"

"A weapon," he jests. The Nord finds humor in the obvious answer, too, it seems. His eyes scavenge through the rows of swords, maces, warhammers, and daggers; there's two-handed weapons in store, too. He carefully appreciates the craftsmanship, the hours of work put into each tool. Some of them he's never seen in Summerset. His eyes linger on the bows made of various types of wood and he strokes the grip of one. "Say, do you sell bows made of bone?"

"Of bone?" The Nord repeats, as if the question was surprising enough for him to check if he wasn't mishearing anything. "Oh, no, no. That's a southwestern thing, pal. We don't do that here in Skryim."

He wants to ask what the store clerk meant, but Renjun comes in with a question instead. "What are you going to choose?"

"I'm not sure. I think I'll go for a sword again. What did you choose?"

"Nothing. I'll be focusing on magic this year," he answers firmly. Yesterday they had an entire conversation about this. Renjun's parents, although not very expectant of their son, still expected a little more. Enrolling in the College costs a small fortune, and they want the results to be worth their while.

"Then, what did your... _new_ roommate choose?"

Renjun gives him a funny look. "Daggers."

"Oh, wow. He's that confident in his close-range skills?"

"He's an archer. It's only for when the target gets too close for comfort."

Jeno's starting to annoy himself by mentioning the Bosmer. "Do you think I could dual-wield these?" he points at the steel swords, his brain telling him to aim for something more grand.

The Imperial takes an attentive look at the shiny blade, then at Jeno. "Honestly? No. Unless you were training dual-wielding over the summer."

"I weren't, but it couldn't be _that_ hard, right?"

"Wielding one sword is already hard."

"I mean... you got weak arms..."

While Renjun threatens to show him just how weak his arms really are, the Nord gets up and approaches them with hefty steps. "Silver would be better in that case. It's lighter and the damage it deals is 'bout the same," he suggests and draws out two silver swords from their metal holders. When in his hands, Jeno can tell the remarkable difference in weight compared to his steel one from last year.

"And twice as expensive," Renjun adds.

"We get it. You know the art of trade. Now mind your business, _Imperial,_ " the Altmer groans.

"You asked for my opi–"

He can see Renjun dryly swallowing his words. A thin silver blade is now pressed to his friend's throat. "I said – mind your business." 

A hush falls upon the store. Jeno looks over at the frozen clerk, at how all his Nordic blood is leaving his paling face, and he can't contain it. He cracks up. The one standing at the tip of his sword waves it away like it's but an annoying bug. "Don't worry, sir, he's only testing the blade."

The way the Nord eyes both of them reminds Jeno of what he once read in the history pages, and more recently – the memoir of Neclar. Before the initial ban of magic, when it was still practiced out in the open, Nords were long suspicious of the College and its mages. The man plumps down on his chair behind the counter where he probably feels more safe. Good, Jeno thinks. There'll be more space for him to swing the swords and get a feel for them.

"They feel great," he concludes after slicing the cabin air in tiny cubes. They head outside with Jeno's new purchase, but not before throwing a thick coin purse on the counter. While walking up the hill towards the College he can't help but laugh every time he recalls the Nord's bewildered grimace.

" _Now mind your business, Imperial.'_ ," Renjun tries the serious tone, but it sounds silly coming from him. "It almost felt real."

"It _was_ real. You're very nosy. But in a good way, in a good way," he quickly clarifies after receiving a deadpan face.

"Some people actually think that way about Imperials, that we're always out to haggle and trick someone."

"I didn't mean it. I wouldn't say that to you."

"But you would call someone a half-breed."

Jeno sighs. Not this. "That's different."

"How is it different?"

"Just is. It's different for the elves, especially the Altmer. There's an unspoken rule that you shouldn't mix Mer and Men together."

"... But Donghyuck's not an Altmer. Why should the rule apply to him?"

"The rule applies to all Mer. It's unethical."

Jeno really doesn't want to argue about this now, or ever. He's had conversations that were similar in nature with his brother before, but at least Johnny is an Altmer and knows of the world that confines him. Bathing in the joy of getting his hands on new weaponry sounds more appealing than re-evaluating what he said to the Bosmer during Collections. He already did that with Ravaena and would like to leave it at that, especially after it only further kindled the fire. The two swords he's carrying are both in sleek, black leather sheaths, and Jeno outstretches one of them. It hits Renjun in the chest, halting his next step and knocking the breath out of him along with any other potential complaints he had. He huffs.

"Ah, sorry." Jeno's magicka might've gone into hibernation, but his physical strength is a different story. He should control it more, he notes. "Take it. For when we go training or hunting. I know you didn't get one so you can have an excuse."

Although hesitant, Renjun takes it. "What about the dual-wielding plan?"

"Still there. I'll retrieve it from you once I start working on it."

"You could go with Jaemin, you know. He loves that sort of stuff."

Jeno shrugs. "I don't know him."

"But you know of him," he's still trying. A futile attempt.

"That isn't equal to me knowing him."

Renjun groans as he slips the sword on his back. "I was so close!"

He can't grant Renjun an escape, but he can selfishly pat him on the back. That's exactly what he does.

* * *

Two days later Jeno's finally sitting at one of the desks in the Arcanaeum; collated over hundreds of years, the great College's library contains a wealth of information. Like most rooms in the main building, it's circular and large, with bookcases lining most of the walls. The small half-circle windows barely allow any light inside, so the main light source that doesn't let the room of stone further succumb to the despairing gloom is the lit candles, which drip wax all day long. There are partition walls segregating the outer ring of the room from the central reading area, where only two, bigger than the rest tables are situated, and Jeno's currently occupying one of them. There's enough space for him to sprawl out his belongings, even a goblet with magicka potion infused wine has its own space. The natural light of day, however, doesn't reach him.

There's an open spell tome before him, containing Conjure Familiar. He's tracing the words with his fingers and writing them down with the other hand. Most of what he's copying he can't understand – it's written in Daedric alphabet that is only used by the Dunmer, Dark Elves, and the opportunity he had to learn the script and basic grammar back in the Summerset Isles only lasted for a few years – but he knows it's an old poem that has to do with the spirit of a Dunmeri warrior. Spell tomes are old books that were converted into magical instruction; it matters not what the book is about as long as it was kept or written by a mage and is of long-standing. Not all of them have the potential to serve as a spell tome, and mages who specialize in magical conversion seek out the best of books through constant trial and error, not to mention injecting energy into an inanimate object is very magicka-consuming.

Given there's thirty-two of them waiting in line and there's only two Conjure Familiar spells tomes available at the College, Jeno is glad he got his hands on one of them this early on. Renjun was even luckier than him – he got called in the first day after they were told about the spell, and he's currently in the training fields. He told the Imperial he envies him, but Renjun expressed there's no reason to and he'd switch places with Jeno in a heartbeat.

Renjun even finds the process of copying the texts more suitable than the practical part, and Jeno doesn't understand that. His hand has been restlessly working for an hour now and he's already yawned thrice. There's no set time period in which a student's body – his magicka – accepts the spell, absorbs it and calls it its own base knowledge. It's unique to each person. It can take hours, sometimes even days or weeks if it's a high-level spell. Jeno's a quick learner in this regard, but the residual effects of the fever are hindering the process, he can feel it.

Alongside him there's another second-year learning the spell in the reading area. The table is across from Jeno's, and he eyes the fidgeting student whenever staring at the letters gets too tiring. He'll be disappointed if the guy walks out of the library before he does. 

Sometimes, Jeno chooses to look at the librarian instead. The zealous maintainer of the Arcanaeum, an Orc Urag gro-Shub sits behind the counter at the very end of the room and oversees everyone within his sight. Whenever a student turns a page a little too rough for his liking, he clears his throat and shoots them a warning look.

Jeno's almost done with this stanza. From where his fingertips touch the yellow paper he can feel the energy tightly locked within the pages travel to his other arm, where it pours out through the tip of his quill. This exchange leaves an imprint upon imprint in the memory of his magicka; it's building up and Jeno can tell it won't take long – he's almost done.

During his breather he notices the Orc putting down his book and it's not with the intent to shush or warn someone, no. He's looking ahead, at the arched entrance. Orcs are known for their great senses, and Jeno immediately assumes someone's walking up the stairs from the Hall of Elements, so he turns to look as well. Sure enough, not even five seconds later the door on the left opens and someone appears in the entrance hall. Only when said someone leans against the doorway, for some reason refusing to go inside, does Jeno recognise who it is. It's Donghyuck.

He promptly switches to copying the poem. The librarian leaves his supervision post and crosses the reading area as he approaches the Bosmer. They exchange words, but they're being hush about it so as to not disturb the work of other students present in the library. 

"... I left it in my sleeping quarters. Stay here," the Orc instructs and rushes through the same door. Jeno's writing word after word, but the stream of magicka entering and coursing through his body has grown quite thin. His efforts are absentminded, and he finds that he's more aware of the Bosmer's presence in the room than he'd like to be - it's ripping away his much needed concentration. Donghyuck does as he was told and stays put for approximately half a minute before he's stepping inside the outer ring of the room, where the third-years are studying in peace – _were_ studying in peace.

Jeno's eyes discreetly follow Donghyuck's figure through the gaps in the partition wall, looking away whenever there's a possibility of being caught staring. The Bosmer is stopping by each desk and checking the spells the mages are adopting, making small talk with them. Jeno thinks it's little annoying – Donghyuck's a mage and is familiar with the process, yet he dares disturb the silence of the Arcanaeum together with the bond between the mage and the tome. Donghyuck eventually circles the room and Jeno can't track him anymore, but now the sound of him conversing, even if in whispers, distracts him from behind the partition that stands against Jeno's back.

Then Donghyuck takes the three steps down into the lowered central reading area, right beside his right ear, and Jeno's quill stops moving. The Bosmer's fingers are tracing the edge of Jeno's table as he walks past him, but the Altmer refuses to look up and directs his glare at the insolent hand instead. Donghyuck's not wearing gloves this time and Jeno can now clarify what he saw during Collections. There's patches of light skin strewn around his fingers, stretching up to his hand, like golden waves washing over a pale shore.

"What spell is this?" he hears Donghyuck ask the other guy.

"Oh- uh- Conjure Familiar."

"Woah, really? Are you a second-year?"

The student nods or gives some other non-verbal sign of approval, Jeno doesn't know – he's not _looking_ , but as much is obvious from the Bosmer's reaction. He sighs dramatically.

"I thought they'll teach us Conjure Familiar this school year. They really look down their noses at the first-years, huh?"

_Dream on_ , the Altmer scoffs in his head.

"... What would happen if, let's say, you lent me the spell tome after you're done. And told Mr. gro-Shub you needed more time. I'm good at adopting spells fast."

Jeno reaches for the wine and it's not because he needs to replenish his magicka. When taking a sip, he cannot avoid glancing at the two people across from him. Donghyuck's hands are on the table and he's leaning over it; the second-year is sitting timidly under his shadow. But most importantly, Donghyuck is staring at him. There's a hunch the Bosmer's been waiting for him to look up. Jeno's pride doesn't agree to him averting his eyes first, so he doesn't break the eye-contact.

"I don't know if... if that's a good idea," the student stutters awkwardly. Jeno almost rolls his eyes at the sissy response. Who's the real second-year here?

He puts the goblet back down and leans back, the stem of it between his middle and index fingers. He taps the base impatiently.

"Ah, but you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours." Donghyuck gets closer to the student to whisper something in his ear, and it goes without saying Jeno is a little curious. He grasps the opportunity to inspect the Bosmers apparel. He's wearing the novice robes, which means the first-years are learning either Clairvoyance or Fury. For a hunter, the spell Conjure Familiar is handy in many respects, so he understands why Donghyuck would be interested in it, but _unfortunately_ for him, Jeno won't let this violation slide.

He clears his throat. "It's illegal to engage in the trade of spell tomes."

The second-year's eyes shake at the sudden call-out; maybe it's because he was caught discussing the offer, or maybe because it was an Altmer who caught him. Donghyuck, however, is wearing a bored expression.

"Everything's legal in Winterhold," he counters.

"Either way, you shouldn't abuse the College's inventory as you please."

Donghyuck mouths a ' _wow_ ' and shakes his head in disbelief, then gives Jeno a very impudent once-over. "And who are you to care about that? The student body president? You shouldn't be eavesdropping in the first place."

"It's hard not to when you're so shamelessly loud and in everyone's face with this plan of yours." Donghyuck's only up in his face, but there's no need to be _that_ specific. "You shouldn't even be here." Jeno had the Arcanaeum in mind, but even to his own ears it sounded like he meant Winterhold as a whole. He straightens up. "Stop making noise and stand where Sir Urag told you, or I'll drag you there myself."

It's a threat, one that Jeno isn't sure he'd follow through with, but it's a threat nonetheless.

Donghyuck's eyes light up for a second. "Oh? But wouldn't you taint your Altmeri innocence by touching a half-breed? Or are you ready to make that sacrifice today?"

Jeno shrinks back in his seat. He's, all of a sudden, aware of the watchful eyes witnessing the ruckus, and how the outcome of him actually acting out could warp the public's perception of him. As a future politician and a contender to the Azura's Warrant of the Blessings, he can't afford acting on impulse every time. He's not exactly sure how he lost his cool in the first place, how inner loathing turned into words, even when he was provoked. _The_ _way_ he was provoked was very subtle, but effective. After the Collections, Donghyuck must be out to get him or sabotage him in some way, and he needs to be more careful.

Jeno shoots him his final dirty look and picks up the quill, turning into a mute. He ignores Donghyuck's obnoxious laughter, his sneers. He tries his best to block out the interaction between the Bosmer and the Orc after the latter's return. Eventually, the second-year gets up and exits the library, but Jeno doesn't pay any heed to that either. The finish line which seemed so close earlier has now withdrawn, and he knows he'll duplicate at least ten poems until he can get a glimpse of it again.

Funnily enough, it's not the main bother on him. In his head, Donghyuck's smiley question rings louder than the war drums in a Dark Elf's tale.

* * *

"My anger's been more prevalent lately."

In order to look at him, Ravaena reluctantly tears her gaze away from the view presented before them.

"I recently felt the urge to get physical and voiced it. That hasn't happened in a long time," Jeno continues. "It's been bothering me the entire day."

They're spending the evening together on top of the stone wall, where its width increases above the main gates and frequent benches outline the sides. Anyone can access what the students call the 'roof'. They're not the only ones using the opportunity, relaxing after the day spent exercising their hands – whether it'd be working the quill or the spells at the training fields. The weather is still tolerable, even quite pleasant, so most benches at the front are taken and they're left to stand and be plastered against the raised edge.

"How recent is recently?" she asks.

"This morning. I was adopting Conjure Familiar, when that first-year appeared and... I think he made me mad on purpose. I would've probably gotten physical, if it wasn't for the others in the Arcanaeum."

It takes a minute for Ravaena to answer. Perhaps she's too riveted by a panorama of the Winterhold, the little lights of the town mirroring the stars above. Perhaps, she's thinking.

"It hasn't even been a week and you're mentioning him again."

She's in a pensive mood, Jeno discerns. "I might've just touched a nerve with my previous remark, but..." he recalls the very first hint of reluctance in the Bosmer's eyes, even before the half-breed comment left his unattended mouth. "Maybe he's not fond of Altmers in general."

"Joroth," with a sigh she begins, and he's already preparing himself to be scolded for overthinking this. What he doesn’t expect is a raincloud of constructive advice pouring over and cooling his overheating head. "The Bosmer knows you're after the warrant, that's all the explanation you need. He's a nobody, don't give him the attention he wants. You should focus on what's important; these unnecessary questions only occupy your time and feed on your anger. I understand why he'd invoke these feelings in you, but you must ignore it. You must ignore him if he tries to rile you up again, so that the history doesn't repeat itself."

Jeno exhales a relieved breath into the fresh air now that the rock of doubt has been lifted. _Ignorance_. Ignorance is bliss and he's glad he backed out the last second, shutting in within himself. Ravaena instructs him to do what he already felt would be his best bet, and Jeno trusts that confirmation. She's been there when all he knew were the peak moments of blind rage and devastation, and she's here when they revisit him like an unwanted morning guest.

"Faralda told me I should work on my magicka. That's what I'll be focusing on," he says.

Judging by her softening expression the response seems to be to her liking. "Good. I hope you know you can always come to me for help."

"Don't embarrass me like this. I should be the one offering help to an underclassman."

His protest sends her into a fit of giggles, which gradually dim down to a comfortable silence. They're peeking past the wall at the tiny students crossing the bridge, returning to the College before the curfew closes the gates for them.

"Do you think the robes suit me?" Ravaena spins modestly, the asymmetrically cut bottom pieces spinning with her. The material of the robes is of murky teal color, unlike the apprentice ones Jeno will receive tomorrow, which are grayish blue. Draped over her shoulders there's a stand-alone linen neck cover with a hood. The robes are secured with a couple leather belts: around the waist and across the torso. From under the half-sleeves linen undergarments wrap around her forearms; matching teal pants cover the legs.

"They look... good on you," he doesn't even try to sound convincing.

"Mm. I don't like them either."

"It's just a little weird seeing you in novice robes. Not the Raven I know."

She nods appreciatively in an effort to hide a growing smile. "Nice save."

Right past her blonde locks Jeno notices two students coming from the main tower. The closer they get, the more attentively he watches them, and the more attentively he watches, the more convinced he is that it's Renjun and Jaemin he's seeing.

"Would you like to meet my friends?" he asks.

"Of course."

"I mean right now," Jeno specifies and points at the two Imperials nearing them with a tilt of his head. Upon the gesture, Ravaena follows the path of his gaze and now both of them are anticipating the collision. The first to realize this is Jaemin, and he urges his cousin, who's looking over at the Sea of Ghosts and is probably feeling lightheaded, to hurry up.

Jaemin approaches them with what Jeno could only describe as the pinnacle of Imperialistic haughtiness: a smug grin, hands carelessly placed on his hips; he looks like a noble, blood-sucking landlord visiting his serfs to collect the monthly rent. Even his greeting is a decibel too loud and oratorical, earning turned heads their way. "And who do we have here? Good evening, Mister Lorathael and..." he hesitates once it's Ravaena's turn, "...Miss Grayore. Am I and Renjun interrupting something?"

"No, not at all," Jeno dismisses, "we were waiting on you, actually."

Jaemin quirks a brow. "Is that why Renjun dragged me up here?" He surveys his cousin, who's hiding behind him like a shy child, or an embarrassed relative. It's most definitely the latter.

"Oh, no. We saw you enter the roof and decided to let you bump into us," Jeno clears up, and the Imperial stares him down with the remnants of a smile still present on his mouth.

"Is that so? You know, I was thinking... the College is a small place, yet somehow I never once bumped into you during these last four days. I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

Whatever reaction Jeno was supposed to have, it's stuck on delay. They're not friends, it's even debatable whether or not he could consider the Imperial an acquaintance, and it goes without saying that the thought of him wouldn't cross his mind on a regular day, much less cause him to go down the road of evasion. He tries to peep at Renjun, an emergency shout for help coded under the quick move. But Renjun doesn't correspond; he looks as if everything he wishes for is to have fallen into the sea earlier.

"It's not like that," Jeno explains away, and this time his laughter is genuine. It's the absurdity of the assumption that gets to him, or perhaps it's the dawning realization that the other is only joking. "I was awaiting my turn to adopt a spell, so I didn't venture outside my room that much. Though I'm sure we'll meet at the training grounds soon." It's unclear how soon is _soon_ , because Jaemin isn't wearing his robes, which could indicate he still hasn't been called in, and Jeno starts training at the crack of tomorrow's dawn. Renjun, for some reason, is wearing novice robes.

"Novice robes?" he vocalizes his confusion.

Renjun bobs his head, slowly returning to the land of the living and leaving Jaemin's back so as to fully join the conversation. "The Master Wizard told us we'll only get apprentice robes after we get the hang of Conjure Familiar. It's a novice-level spell, so."

"You're kidding. We'll wear novice robes for a month?" Jeno has no right to sound this unhappy. His magicka can't handle apprentice spells, yet he carries on with a dissatisfied remark, "How is that any different from being a first-year?"

Jeno recognizes he raised such question in front of two newcomers. At least he left out a certain adjective. "Not that I have anything against first-years," he clarifies. _Unless they go by the name of Donghyuck._ In that case, he does, in fact, have a few complaints. The Bosmer entirely embodies what he finds annoying in those younger than him: the loud audacity to cut corners and cheat the set timelines. It's especially irritating now that he's learning a novice spell – something he had no say in – and Donghyuck shamelessly tried to skimp on that right in front of his very eyes.

He also recognizes Ravaena, a very different first-year, who's been quiet the entire time in the presence of the two Imperials.

"Raven, meet my friend Renjun. He's the one I've been speaking of all this time," he introduces, and the two acknowledge each other with a slight bow of their heads, wordlessly. "And I'm assuming Jaemin already knows who you are. I must say it I didn't expect that."

"Well, we're both first-years, aren't we?" Jaemin comments. "And likewise. I couldn't help but notice you just called her Raven. I wasn't aware Miss Grayore had an international title."

It's because she doesn't, Jeno itches to say, but only casts her a sidelong glance.

"Please refer to me as Ravaena," she requires politely, and something akin to satisfaction courses through Jeno's consciousness along with a strange sensation of unfamiliarity, but he tunes the latter out.

"It's a reserved nickname, I see."

Jeno learns that the Imperial is the type to swiftly catch on to the details, the intricacies of a situation, read between the lines even when the thick atmosphere fogs the view, and he spells it out for everyone, loud and clear, only to see the recipients fidget in crippling awkwardness. An interesting variant of a social sadist. Jeno can only hope he doesn't fall victim.

* * *

"Your cousin is _awfully_ interested in me."

Exhausted and with nothing else to do, Jeno's trying to imagine all the propaganda Renjun was spewing behind his back that could've been the cause. It's been two weeks since the four of them coincidentally met on top of the wall, and Jaemin has already hinted at a hunt and some other alternative ways they could spend some of their limited free time together. What was untrue prior to the meeting is beginning to turn into reality: the Altmer is avoiding the topic and the Imperial himself, and he makes sure to keep him at arm's length at all times. Not because Jeno doesn't like him – he finds his loose tongue quite agreeable on every other occasion and the attention definitely flatters him – but it's the version of himself, which he presents in front of Jaemin, that he dislikes.

It's like he takes a step down the sociability ladder and is suddenly tongue-tied. Jaemin talks a lot, which plays an important part in it. He talks a lot, but he also _asks_ a lot of questions, and by the end of the year Jeno is sure the Imperial will be qualified to write a biography on his behalf.

“He’s not interested in you specifically. He’s interested in High Elves,” says Renjun from where he’s scavenging for food inside their respective tent. The students usually use up the entire day cultivating their magicka, exceeding the limits of it until they can’t function without resting up or downing some beverage fused with a stamina or magicka potion. That’s why most of them put up tents; Jeno and Renjun are no exception.

“What do you mean?"

The Imperial emerges from their decently built construction, an apple with a chunk already bitten out in his hand, and he joins the High Elf by sitting on a log across from him. Their tent could use an upgrade or two — it's not exactly waterproof, and unexpected rain surprises them more often than he'd like — but he’s by no means an expert in survivalism. He simply hanged around others who were much more experienced during his first year, watched them work on their tents and learned a few useful tricks.

“He’s said before how he’s fascinated by the Altmer and their culture. But I think it’s because you guys don’t leave your island that much and only visit Cyrodiil once in a blue moon, and only when there’s business involved. High Elves are a mystery to us, Imperials, and he’s trying to solve it through you.”

He takes another bite and chews for a moment before finding something funny in his own thoughts: "though if we were to generalize, you’re not the prime example of what an Altmer is.”

Jeno has a feeling he should be offended. “Explain.”

“Well, you’re from Auridon for starters, and I’ve read that the port cities are home to some of the friendliest and most outgoing Altmer. It makes sense when you think about it: all the invaders, pirates and plagues brought from Tamriel really hardened you guys. And trading. You probably meet more diversity through trade within a year than most Altmers do throughout their entire lives. To get a sense of a true High Elf, Jaemin should interact with someone who isn't that open-minded in respect of Imperials. Someone from the main isle Summerset. Someone like Ravaena."

Everything regarding his home island is spot-on, it even gives Jeno a pat on the back for being native to Auridon, but the last part of Renjun's evaluation he isn't sure he understands. "But Ravaena _is_ open-minded."

"You know what, she's your friend. I won't get into it."

Even if confounded, he doesn't want to press on. Maybe it's the fear of finding out something he'd rather ignore that speaks over him. “You’ve done your research," is all he says.

Renjun shrugs. “I looked into different races over the summer. I thought knowing their roots and lifestyle will help me understand them better, and as a result help me become a more competent diplomat.”

"Not bad," Jeno praises, but then gets hit by a random wave of shivers. "You're making me regret I said no to when mother offered to send me regular updates on the situation in the Isles. I thought it'd be wise to focus on the warrant... I really forget politics exist when I'm here, in Winterhold."

"Me too. It feels like this place is cemented in the past. You know, when the last Dragonborn was still alive and all. The Empire is so much more advanced."

The last Dragonborn was a Nord who just happened to be a resident of Winterhold. This region rested on its laurels, having brought the final hero of mankind, and now attracts all sorts of nobility and the wealthy with its ancient tales and frozen-in-time lifestyle. The story of the Dragonborn, a mortal blessed with the blood and soul of a dragon, awakened pure excitement and fueled Jeno's developing imagination, and even as a young man of nineteen years old he was thrilled to set foot in Skyrim and feel the weight of its history for himself.

"You'd be surprised by how minimal the changes in the Summerset Isles are compared to those times, too," he says. "We're not lagging behind as bad as this place is, but, it's still very noticeable."

Without looking, Renjun tosses the core of the apple behind him. _Bird food_ , Jeno can imagine him say in his head.

"Even in Auridon?" he asks.

"Even in Auridon," Jeno repeats, smiling.

His friend thinks for a second. "Still, I want to visit your island someday. And your dogs. What were their names again?"

"Dovah and Kiin," he tells him reluctantly, predicting the Imperial's response. In the ancient, now dead tongue of the dragons, Dovahkiin stands for Dragonborn.

"Riiight... I forgot how geeky you were about dragons."

"Cut me some slack," the Altmer rolls his eyes, "I was barely ten when I thought of these names."

"I won't cut you _any_ slack nor accept excuses, because last year when we were training–"

"Let's not–"

"Last year when we were training here," his friend insists, raising his voice when Jeno gets up and tries to stop him from reminding all that he already knows, but Renjun slips past his hold and a game of tag commences. A very stamina demanding game that neither of them have the energy for. He vividly remembers their dragon argument that began with him daydreaming during their rest hour and sharing said fantasies with a washed out Renjun. _Imagine if a dragon appeared above the training gounds,_ he had said while pointing at the pale sky, his back kissing the dirt. He had then ignored Renjun's remark, which concluded both of them would be turned to ashes, and continued with his own narrative where he would thrust a sword into a dragon's forehead, because that's where they're most sensitive; that's their weak spot.

_Jeno, we're talking about a dragon. A literal dragon._

_I know, and I'm telling you I could easily take one down._

_And I'm telling you it'd blast you away with its shout before you could even scream my name for help._

Jeno catches him, finally, after circling their tent like a hungry hyena, and locks his wrists in his hands.

"Jeno, I'm sorry but, no matter how dignified of a politician you become in the future, in my eyes, you'll always be a boy who thinks he can defeat a dragon."

That's enough to make him squeeze on Renjun's arms in a twist, all the while cutely scrunching his nose as if he were but tickling him, and the student shrieks in pain.

"Stop! Stop! You can't punish me for honesty!" he begs, but his wide eyes fixate on something else farther back, "Look, look!"

Jeno's not falling for a cheap trick. "If it's not a dragon, I'm not looking."

"Even better! It's the first-years."

He doesn't need further convincing to turn around and be met with something less exciting than dragons, but far more apprehension-inspiring. From the direction of Winterhold, towards the sparsely vegetated plains, there descents a small group of first-years. When Jeno squints he can tell it's Donghyuck who's in the lead, and the Bosmer waves at them, which only tells him their collision is inevitable. He's too busy staring grimly to pay any attention to Renjun grabbing his arm and using it to wave back, and he yanks it away upon realizing, utterly shocked and offended. He can't believe his friend just stabbed him in the back, cruel and unforgiving, making him seem all friendly-like.

So much for ignoring the Bosmer's existence.


	3. Turn My Mind into Your Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm releasing this into the world at a snail's pace. 
> 
> TW: indirect violence, gore.

> _"_ _The well-educated and well-spoken Imperials are the natives of the civilized, cosmopolitan province of Cyrodiil. Imperials are also known for the discipline and training of their citizen armies, and their respect for the rule of law. Though physically less imposing than the other races, the Imperials have proved to be shrewd diplomats and traders, and these traits, along with their remarkable skill and training as light infantry, have enabled them to subdue all the other nations and races and erect the monument to peace and prosperity that comprises the Glorious Empire."_

It happens all too quickly.

One second he's slumped on the log, distancing himself from the conversation and Donghyuck. There's nothing he has to tell the first-years, the same way he's sure they didn't stop off for him.

That one short second he's bearing the scorn of an Imperial and a Dark Elf who excluded themselves to approach him. As though nearing a wild beast, they're forbearing and cautious at first, but loud and insistent with their brave comments once comfortable, as if Jeno is but a wall that will only cause their bullets to ricochet. 

"You're that irascible Altmer, aren't you?" one of them challenges.

"Careful, he might suck your soul dry with his Necromantic spells."

The guy scoffs. "I wish he would. You heard what Donghyuck said. He's a _coward_."

Jeno doesn't grant them the attention they're so desperately demanding from him. Their contempt aimed at Altmers is laughable, but a coward he is, just not in the way they suspect. He's shackled by the fear of submitting to that _irascible_ nature of his, which is currently confined within a space way too limiting. Normally, he'd bark back, but he's been standing on the edge these days; staring into the impossibly black void and recalling the feeling of freefalling. He knows he doesn't want to experience it again. Patience is what grounds him. But they're trying, oh, they're trying to get a glimpse of the villain in action, the same one who called someone a half-breed and disrupted the sacred silence of the Arcanaeum.

He's the same devil incarnate that has bloodied his hands before, but they can't possibly know that. Even he himself for the past few years lived free of that memory, so why is it coming back now? Why is the jacket of the bad guy, that was too tight and too short at the limbs last summer, in this moment is a perfect match for him? The prior school year not a single soul dared question him, and now there's two first-years passing judgment on his existence.

"He won't even look at us. Here's your typical High Elf right here: no one's worth his time. Why is Renjun even hanging around this conceited piece of trash? It's all an ego trip for him."

Jeno's magicka awakens, colorful and dangerous. It's rushing to the palms of his hands without any purpose other than bursting out compulsively. If these idiots knew, they'd do themselves a huge favor by shutting up. Instead they're venting their built up frustrations with his race on him, and Jeno can't even look at their faces; he knows it'd be over for him if he did.

"Maybe we should head back," the less vocal one says. There's undertones of pity in the suggestion, or perhaps it's the young man's gut feeling that's talking.

"Nah. I want him to look at me first."

The student crouches down to meet the level of Jeno's eyes.

"Hey."

Who knew something as simple as a greeting could drive his thoughts to a dark place. He's never been so openly disrespected before, at least not by someone of a different race. The tip of his tongue licks along the inner surface of his teeth; anything to alleviate his grisly desire to burn the Dark Elf's face off.

"Do you ever think that maybe, just maybe, Altmers are the most insufferable elven race? I do. Every single fucking time I see one of you, walking around with your noses in the air like you're better than everyone else."

Self-restraint is the most difficult thing he knows right now, so Jeno searches for external support and finds it in the way Renjun talks with his hands – conducts the flow of the conversation with his back turned to him. Two other first-years bob their heads to the rhythm of his friend's orchestra. Donghyuck's there too, listening, talking. The same Donghyuck that out of spite enabled others to view him as some wimp who'll let himself be humiliated at the whim of anyone. It is because of him that the Dark Elf is imposing on that false narrative, forcing Jeno to hark to even more absurd 'truths' about his race.

And Donghyuck's not oblivious to this. He makes an effort to let Jeno know he isn't, would it be by glancing his or the Dark Elf's way in between the sentences. The only question is whether it's out of curiosity or in order to check if the situation isn't escalating.

The student continues, "Everyone constantly sweeps our kind under your bad name. Aren't Altmers too mighty to mingle with anyone outside of Isles? Why even bother coming here, then? You should all just rot in your beloved Summerset till the end of time so that nobody has to suffer the pleasure of meeting you."

He then, to the Altmer's great relief, splits their close proximity – where every outspoken word left Jeno thirsting for violence – by standing up. Then, he spits on the dirt close to Jeno's boots as if sealing what he said with a stamp of final derision. Farther away, he can see Donghyuck's listening face form into a frown. The thought of the Bosmer's displeasure with his own creation is the last straight string of sanity in Jeno's entangled web of a mind.

"Did you build this?" the elf points at Jeno's tent.

"I did," he breaks his silence.

The other first-year tugs on the elf's arm. "Let's not. We should leave."

Jeno diverts his eyes before he can see it, but he's confident the Dunmer just pushed his friend away. "Fuck off. If you wanna suck up to Altmers for the rest of your life, go ahead, but I'm tired of that shit."

The guy backs away, but doesn't flee the scene completely, just stands at a safe distance from both his friend and the Altmer. _Tired of what,_ thinks Jeno. All he's doing is minding his own business and currently ignoring a scumbag; in other words: everything he's supposed to be doing.

"A sloppy job," the Dark Elf decides, but Jeno never asked. "But that's only to be expected. I bet if I did something as simple as kicking it lightly it'd all come crashing down," he waits a second longer before asking, "should I test that? To see if it's stormproof?"

This, he can't ignore and patiently sit through. Jeno one-ups his stance: he's taller, broader and intense when he wants to be. The student welcomes the opposition, though threatened.

"That's enough," he says, his thumbs rubbing against the other fingers; he's dangerously close to snapping. "You've said what you wanted to say. You got my attention. Now listen to your friend and retreat."

Although it comes out very forced and unnatural, he's surprised by what left his own mouth. Rather than him, it's something Johnny would say; more counselling than barking. In that moment of slight hesitation and confusion, paired with stolen attention by Donghyuck who, probably alerted by the arising tension, is ready to intervene, the Dark Elf strikes stealthily. With the stick supporting the top part now knocked down, Jeno's left to watch his tent cave in. And it's such a childish, petty action – one that Jeno would be able to look past and dismiss with little effort – but the previous slander takes a toll on him and it becomes the greatest offence of his life.

"Hey!" he hears Donghyuck call out – he's near.

Wrong timing. Jeno's judgment is muddled by the red he's seeing, and there's a disconnect between reality and him; he's not thinking anymore. Next thing he knows there's energy gathering in his curled hand. It flashes a beautiful, saturated blue and a ghastly creature jumps to attack Donghyuck. Someone shrieks.

Jeno's panting through the next few seconds of oppressive silence. The sound of the drum that is his erratic heartbeat is the only thing that feels real, until he sees a wide-eyed Donghyuck staring at him, safe and sound, and scratch-free. These are not the eyes of someone who just faced grave danger with open jaws. Yes, there's shock and there's bewilderment, but there's no fear. Donghyuck isn't demonizing him with his stare, either.

Jeno feels them swap positions. He's the vulnerable one all of a sudden, with his raw, unfiltered anger naked and exposed. With his inmost madness flipped inside out. And it's all in front of the Bosmer, for him to take in and assess.

But Jeno's not running away. He's breathing. He's _just_ breathing.

And then he looks at Renjun, who's frozen behind Donghyuck. His expression is a different story, one narrated by concern. Jeno's breathing, but now there's dread knocking on his door.

"What the hell?" The Dark Elf utters. "It's just a tent. No need to get so aggressive. It was bound to fall apart, anyway – I was doing you a favor."

The guy seems to have a penchant for saying the wrong thing. Jeno looms over him, close enough for their conversation to be private.

"Just because I let Donghyuck off the hook that one time does not mean you get to have the same. Keep the Altmer out of your dirty mouth, and if I catch you so much as looking my way, I'll feed you to my familiar. Are we clear?"

There's no response – not that Jeno expected to receive one – only a pathetic scowl. He turns his back on the elf; Jeno's ready to withdraw to his room, and it's not even late into the evening like it usually is when he exits the training grounds. He acknowledges Renjun, his worry, but he doesn't have the energy to dispel it. The dust has settled, at least for him it has.

"Jeno!" his friend shouts, causing the Altmer's conscience to twist painfully. He promises to himself to explain, but not today. Renjun, however, doesn't give up and his voice booms again, but this time in the shape of a warning. "Look out!"

A conjured dagger aimed for his neck flies his way, and only thanks to Renjun is he able to turn around and dodge it in time. It still gets his face, leaving a deep cut in its trajectory. Jeno's hand comes up to his cheekbone. It's warm and wet. He retracts it to look at his fingers covered in crimson red, and it's through these fingers do his eyes focus on the one who spilled his blood. This absolute scum, the lowest of the low. Attacking when his opponent isn't looking. This worm... Even after Jeno didn't lay a finger on him. But he should have. He should have earned the screams of agony from him. This vermin...

"Jeno!" a pair of hands engulf his shoulders, halting his inner monologue and the steps he didn't know he was taking. It's Renjun. The Dark Elf makes his first wise decision of today and bolts, not staying around to get killed. Jeno tracks the bastard with murder in his eyes before looking his friend in the face. Lost. Renjun looks lost.

"Let's... let's sit down for a moment."

Once guided to it, Jeno collapses on top of the log like it's a magnet pulling him in. He's slowly entering the numb phase after the storm has passed: the middle stage between the action and its aftermath. Renjun joins his miserable self by sitting across from him, and they're back to how they were fifteen minutes ago. Except this time the Imperial looks like he's contemplating life, Jeno is bleeding from his left cheek, and their tent is a depressing pile of cloth and stick.

"Are..." Renjun attempts, "are you okay?"

He barely moves his head for a weak nod. As a whole, he is okay. And as a whole, he'll be okay. It's the individual parts of him that are malfunctioning, throwing errors, but even then he's currently senseless to it all. He feels like a tranquilized animal.

Renjun is a different case. The battle of reasoning shows up on his serious face, and Jeno understands why that is. He just attacked Donghyuck, and he was attacked in return, but it all happened too quickly for anyone's comprehension.

Small branches crack under the feet of those who approach them. It's Donghyuck and the remaining three first-years. Jeno notices the nervous young man standing behind the others, the same one who tried to stop the Dark Elf, too shaken by the situation to appear before him. The Altmer looks away, exhaling through his mouth, hands clasped together, eyes on the ground. He won't feel any better or feel at all until he sees them leave.

Although numbed out of his brain, Jeno abruptly grasps the wrist reaching for his face. He looks up with the most cross glare he can muster. The same curious eyes are reading into him, only from up-close. Donghyuck lightly wriggles his wrist in the hold, and Jeno lets go, his reaction a little delayed.

"That's a clean cut," the Bosmer says once he straightens his back. "Conjured daggers are as sharp as the real thing, aren't they?"

Jeno thinks about staying silent. "Sharper," but decides to speak, apparently. 

Perhaps Donghyuck doesn't expect him to acknowledge the rhetorical question either, for his eyebrows shoot up ever so slightly. Jeno's lack of defiance propels him to keep talking.

"So that was Conjure Familiar. I've seen it before, but never this... close to my face. You know, they say familiars resemble their owners. After today, I'd say it's true."

Jeno feels his face twist in confusion. Is this supposed to be a comment on his temperament, because he's sure all Donghyuck saw in that split second was a gaping maw and murderous, wolfish eyes.

"Donghyuck," Renjun cuts in, "shouldn't you guys get going? I remember you saying Yukhei is already waiting on you at the bank of the river." 

"Ah, you're right," Donghyuck sighs as if leaving is a problem. "Shouldn't keep him waiting for too long. I guess Dejun won't be joining us," he looks around, "since he ran away."

So the Dark Elf – the real coward – goes by the name of Dejun.

"Thanks again for helping us. See you at the tower," Donghyuck salutes Renjun, sparing Jeno another once-over for good measure.

The Imperial sees them off with a rather pleasant expression plastered on, but drops it as soon as the first-years exit the hearing range.

"That liar," he hisses, surprising Jeno in the process, “I, of course, am aware of what transpired between you two in the Arcanaeum. Donghyuck was the one who told me, actually, but he looked me in the eyes and swore he didn’t provoke you. And yet!”

Jeno suspected Renjun knows – how can he not when Jaemin is his cousin – but he never brought it up, and Jeno had no reason mentioning it either. He waits for some sort of continuation, but Renjun is showing no signs of it; he’s too occupied by his disbelief.

“And yet?”

“And yet... The look he just gave you. How do I put this? That's the look I get before I'm hit with some... banter sparking remark and it's all for the sake of Donghyuck getting his daily dose of discourse." There's a moment of thought, then: "But he's been calmer these days. Doesn't poke at me as much. Maybe he's found a new plaything."

If only he could match the amusement that appeared in his friend's tone the last second, but the dread hanging over his head is stronger; it overpowers him along with the previously felt numbness. The Imperial seems to notice this, and the mood plummets once more. Renjun uncomfortably eyes the fresh wound.

"I attacked a student," Jeno forces out.

"If you're afraid of Dejun snitching on you – he won't. He attacked you too and he succeeded. You didn't. I know this isn't the right time, but your control there was amazing. You successfully called a familiar for the first time and you managed to make it disappear before the attack could land. That's hard to pull off even for the third-years who specialize in Conjuration.”

The realization that both of them are looking at this matter from different perspectives delivers a heavy punch in his stomach. Renjun doesn't know. He doesn't know that this so-called control of his can't be contributed to his magicka, but rather to its shortfall. Jeno was exhausted having trained for hours, trying to manifest the spell he'd adopted – only for flashes of quick to die sparks and vague contours of a wolf appear before him. There's no way he could've actually expanded on his remaining drops of magicka in any healthy, organic way. It was the momentum of his anger that gave him that push, made his limits seem more spacious than they were, and as a consequence for a few seconds he was able to fabricate this illusion of a strong, full-fledged familiar. Otherwise, Donghyuck right now would be... heavily injured at best.

Jeno doesn't think he can correct Renjun on it, though, not when the Imperial is willing to overlook the fact that the attack was aimed at Donghyuck. Instead, he's praising him with the intention to comfort. Still, willingness is a conscious decision. Deep down, Jeno can tell this new side of him begets doubt.

"What will they do at the river? Search for Nirnroots?" he asks weakly, wanting to escape further realizations.

"Yeah. I don't know, maybe you've heard this from Ravaena already, but most first-years are done with their spells for now. The potion assignment is right around the corner, even for us. I suggested preparing for it beforehand, since some ingredients will be harder to obtain once the cold hits. That's what Donghyuck is doing." He then smiles meekly, "sorry, I sort of told him the exact location we found last year."

"Which potion is he going for?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell me."

Jeno might have to go bigger this year, just to be safe. He winces at the pain; it's properly settling in with his lucidity slowly returning to him. Renjun's fingers threaten to nurse his pain, so he attempts to grab the Imperial's wrist too, but fails.

"Save your magicka. We got some bandages in the tent–"

"Don't be stubborn. Let me stop the bleeding at least."

Warm light forms on Renjun's fingertips and he hovers them right above the wound, not making direct contact with it. That inherit warmth of Restoration spells: it's pacifying in the most addicting way. Jeno's heard stories of mages purposely injuring themselves just to embrace it again; they claimed it reminded them of their loved ones. Ostracized geniuses gone mad due to loneliness – that's what Jeno thought before he had his first taste of it. Now, he somewhat gets it.

"Just so you know... I'll always be your friend, but I can't promise to always be on your side."

There it is: the splinter of doubt leaving Renjun's skin. Jeno understands, he'd doubt himself too, but that doesn't take away from the sting it brings. Contradictory to his current situation, he doesn't want a fight – he'll do his best to avoid it – but if it turns out to be the sole door leading to the warrant, he'll take it without hesitation.

"Then don't," is all he says.

* * *

Drowning in the salty sea of his own sweat and horror, Jeno wakes in the middle of the night. The first thing he does is cast Candlelight. He's staring at his illuminated hands like there's a stranger under his skin, but the absence of blood he saw in his nightmare eases his soundless whimpers. He steadily lowers his shaky hands like they're blades sharp enough to cut him if he's not careful and pushes against the mattress, his back meeting the headrest with a thump. Under the sound of his irregular breathing Jeno makes out the dull buzz of a quiet, peaceful night, and for better or worse, focuses on it. In that moment of absolute clarity, the events of the fateful dream start coming back to him.

Donghyuck.

Above him the sky weltered a deep blue, beneath him there lied Donghyuck, defeated and inert. His unmoving body didn't diffuse Jeno's blind rage, and he continued to land fist after fist, until his skin turned soggy like it does after a good bath, but instead it was the blood of the Bosmer overwhelming every crevice of him: his knuckles, in between the curves of his fingers, under his nails. He hit him until there wasn't a discernable feature left on Donghyuck's face – just a mash of flesh and blood – all the while chanting that damned word with every punch. _Half-breed._

Jeno almost pukes at the image. Clutching on his biceps, he tries to stop his trembling upper-body and seeks for a lifeline in memories he once buried. He remembers his brother, his carefree but shrewd brother, angry and choked with dismay, holding onto his arms just like he is right now, shaking the madness out of him. Jeno recalls the non-stop tears streaming down his face, cooling but burning him simultaneously, and there's a single teardrop snailing down his face right now. He lets it fall.

Why? Why is this happening? Where did he go wrong? Was it the moment he called Donghyuck a half-breed, earning his spite?

But even if it was, what is Donghyuck's spite really worth? He could hate Jeno with an intensity strong enough to break through stone, but it still wouldn't make a difference against the steel walls built around him, it wouldn't torment him with these vivid dreams. Donghyuck's a Bosmer, a stranger, an outright nobody who doesn't play even a minor role in Jeno's life. His spite is only one thing and that is worthless.

And then Jeno remembers the curious glances, stares, even glares, the curious hand reaching for his bloodied skin, daring with logical assumption thrown out the window. Jeno could've pushed him, he could've kicked him. And he would've, if he weren't numb and desensitized to what was happening around him in that moment of daze. Maybe Donghyuck assumed he wouldn't, that's why he dared.

So perhaps it is spite. Spite and curiosity. Curiosity and acute prediction. Perhaps in this short amount of time Donghyuck has figured out the exact location of his weak spot, his inclination to anger shining like a beacon – much like a dragon's forehead – and it's inviting Donghyuck to go in for the kill.

Instead of a quick jab to where it hurts most, it'd seem the Bosmer is first testing the waters. Throughout these past two weeks Jeno's been spotting Donghyuck crossing the courtyard with his Redguard friend, the bow of bone pressed to his back or in his gloved hand like an ever loyal companion. It didn't matter whether Jeno was exiting the main tower, or the Hall of Attainment, or if he was simply in the courtyard to begin with, no – Donghyuck would find him and give him _that_ look. When that happened, the Altmer would almost be convinced of the bow drawing on him. But Donghyuck would then look away, as if saying, _not yet_ , similar to how hunters leave fawns to develop so they can later kill them in cold blood.

_New plaything_. More than a plaything, he feels like prey at the mercy of Donghyuck’s arrow. It’s dramatic, but in a state like this, where he's desperate for answers to questions why and how, anything could pass as plausible to Jeno.

There's also the possibility he's overthinking this, overanalyzing every encounter – and there's not enough of them for a solid conclusion. It's all just feelings, intuition and suspicion. If only he could grab Donghyuck and demand that he hates him quietly, without anyone noticing, without acting all curious when Jeno explodes.

He can't tell anyone about this. Ravaena will be disappointed, if she finds out what kept him up tonight. Renjun, who befriended him with everything they say about Altmers put aside, was healing Jeno's wound with eyes sore and a little untrusting after seeing this new side of him. Telling him is not an option; Jeno's afraid of feeding those potential doubts, especially because he knows it was a one time thing and he won't slip this easily again.

It's just a dream, after all. Just a dream. That's what he needs to hear right now. With that in mind, Jeno tries to think about something else. He's rubbing his arm, letting memories of Summerset swamp his mind and he finds himself drifting away once more. He won't present his anger before anyone anymore. He won't.

* * *

The sight of Jaemin waiting for him outside the staircase to the Arcanaeum takes him by surprise.

"Do you have to be somewhere right now?" he asks right off the bat.

"No, why?"

"Perfect," Jaemin smiles at him, "let's go to Hearth."

It's a little awkward, their first time without Renjun, alone. Jeno knows the stiffness of their relationship is one-sided; the Imperial has no difficulty touching him, talking for the both of them when Jeno can't think of an interesting or witty enough thing to say. He's been squashed under Jaemin's heavy presence since day one, but after hearing what Renjun had to say, he now wants to change that. In a way, he's representing all of Altmer, but making a positive impression on his own account is just as important if not more.

"I've never been to Hearth so early in the day," Jeno confesses as they enter the Frozen Hearth – the only travern of Winterhold, where the genesis of student misconduct and youthful rebellion is most bright and glorious. Jeno is by no means a regular enough customer to witness all that the professors complain about sometimes, but he believes the secondhand stories do justice to the inn's reputation.

"Daytime Hearth is a completely different place. I'm sure you'll enjoy your first time here."

Jeno roams around the peculiar space using his eyes and ears, and nothing else, until the Imperial is guiding him to what was described as his favorite and fortunately free table by the window. Jaemin was right: there's a stark contrast between this and nightly Hearth. Most of its current visitors are the residents of the town enjoying the still minute before the flood of College students. There's no musicians strumming their lutes, which means there's no drunk and gregarious customers suddenly deciding they have a voice worth listening to. If Jeno knew the infamous tavern could get this silent, he would've spent his free afternoons here instead of lounging inside his room or under the strict stare of the librarian. 

"Are you hungry?" Jaemin asks, waving his hand in the air at the Nord behind the bar.

"Not really. But I'll order a drink."

"Then I hope you don't mind me eating in front of you. I'm starving."

"Not at all."

Even if he's chatty and often times purposely ignores the protocol, Jaemin's well-mannered at the table. He holds the silverware how most refined Imperials that visit his mother's manor do, takes small bites and chews wordlessly. They speak with their eyes rather than their mouths as Jeno sips on his Honningbrew mead, Jaemin slipping in a couple of close-lipped smiles.

"I've been curious about something," he reveals, his hands elegantly hovering above the plate and Jeno swallows the liquid with newfound difficulty. Of course. "I never asked because Renjun doesn't like me being 'nosy', but good for me he's not here right now. Why are you after the warrant? Besides the obvious reasons," he swirls the knife in his left hand, as if flicking those _obvious reasons_ away.

There is no surprise in an Altmer pursuing the warrant. After all, the idea was born in an Altmer, for the Altmer. Extraordinary and well-versed in magic: that's the kind of person who can lay claim to the accolade. In the Isles it's a symbol of status, of prestige. It's proof someone is intimately related to their ancestors Aldmers. It's a personal achievement.

Jeno never cared for the warrant and the bonuses it brought. It's always been one of those things that awaited him in the future, something he had to claim, especially with both of his siblings having secured the warrant during their time in the College. Magic runs deep in Lorathaels; it's always been calling out to him. For that reason alone, it'd be almost embarrassing for the youngest child to wind up warrant-less. He also, _sort of,_ wants to prove himself to Lady Grayore.

But these reasons are too silly to be spoken aloud.

"As you already know, my mother is a politician. I will be one too one day, following right after her. She works in close coordination with the Empire, which is the only bridge she has given her main objective is bringing magic back to this world. Mostly Restoration, to be more specific. If I want to represent her wishes, I must get the warrant; show the people I'm someone trustworthy and knowledgeable, convince them what they know of magic is wrong."

"And why is it you who has to do that? Why not your siblings?"

"It's not like I _have_ to do it. I want to," he lies without lying. Truth is, he's indifferent. "I'm the youngest in the family. My sister, who is the oldest, is currently practicing magic in Vvardenfell, Morrowind. She's working on becoming a master in Destruction and later a trainer at the College. Destruction and Restoration – not a compatible mix, and she was never interested in mother's campaign. As for my brother... I'm not sure how he got the warrant and why. He's not really the type to have regard for such things."

"What does he do?" Jaemin presses on when Jeno quiets down.

"Oh, he... He travels. That's all I know. Either way, mother never demanded we take after her. She tried to talk me out of it when I first told her, actually," he recalls with a smile. "But it just felt right, choosing this path."

"I noticed you call her 'mother'. Is that common in the Isles?"

"Everyone I know addresses their mother as _mother,_ so yes."

"What about your father? What does he think of that choice?"

Jeno looks down. "I don't know. If bringing spirits back to life was still legal, I'd ask him."

Jaemin huffs a laugh at this, uttering a small ' _sorry for your loss_ ' through a grin. The Altmer finds he enjoys the way the mood didn't drop, but they get silent as Jaemin finishes up his meal. His satisfied with the amount of information face gradually changes into a broody one. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and Jeno can tell there's dots failing to connect in his head.

"So why are you friends with Miss Grayore then?" he shoots the question at him, and now Jeno is the one trying to connect the dots.

"Pardon?"

The Imperial bunts the plate aside and gets closer, as if he's about to let Jeno in on a secret. "Isn't her father a politician, too?"

"He is. He's under my mother as of now."

Jaemin blinks at this, narrowing his eyes. "That's interesting... Do you know what the first-year Altmers say about her and her family?"

"No, pray tell," he subconsciously leans in as well.

"Well, they say many things, but the one that stuck with me is that her father was caught importing illegal spell tomes into Summerset Isles. It's not an absurd claim. The Empire arrests these kinds of smugglers in tufts. Some even think she's already experienced in magic because of that, and is on top of our year for that exact reason. I'm just surprised you're friends after listening to you talk, that's all."

Jeno doesn't say anything for a good minute. He stares at the darker spot on the wooden table, tracing his jaw while deep in thought. Surely, he would've seen such news plastered everywhere were they true, or at the very least heard a whisper behind closed doors. It's not easy to sweep a transgression that scandalous under the rug, even for someone as influential as Mr. Grayore. It's either a petty rumor started by an even pettier student, or a story that only lives within the main island Summerset, in rooms Jeno can't enter yet.

"I'm not doubting your friendship, don't worry. At the end of the day, she's not going after the warrant for you."

Their eyes meet. What Jaemin is insinuating is crystal clear – Ravaena is better than him – yet Jeno has trouble abandoning the picture of the situation his brain has been so conveniently painting for him until now. There he is, the social sadist Jeno's been avoiding, while covertly anticipating his advent. He feels himself wanting to buy the Imperial a drink.

"So, yeah," Jaemin sighs, "Ravaena is the top student. If you tried visiting the first-years' lectures, you'd think the masters have to broadcast her skills at least once or else they'll drop dead." Then it seems something funny resurfaces in his mind. "Below her there's this one Dark Elf Dejun Gimara. Oh, he amuses me. He's always so bitter about Ravaena surpassing him. And to think she acts like he doesn't even exist..."

That queer day at the training fields makes a lot more sense all of a sudden. Jeno's finger brushes against the healing wound; Renjun's magic was enough to close it, to take the pain away. Now the shallow cut on his face is as ordinary looking as a nose or a mouth – showoffs who dare venture the woods wear them like accessories, rarely resorting to Restoration. 

"What happened? A wild cat scraped you?"

"Less grandiose than that. A surprise attack from an annoying branch, that's all."

"Even branches have claws in Winterhold," Jaemin agrees without any further suggestion that he's aware. Renjun was right – Dejun kept his lips zipped. Everyone who was present that day did.

"So what about that Dejun guy? Anything else?" Jeno prompts.

"There's not much to say about him. He's so focused on Miss Grayore that he doesn't see the real threat before him. Or should I say behind him? Donghyuck's so close to taking his spot as the second most promising rookie mage. But in my humble opinion, Donghyuck's been stronger from the start, but of course I don't know their criteria."

Jeno tenses up – hopefully not visibly – adjusting his posture. Jaemin's eyes rake through his features in search of any change, any taut muscle, and a devilish grin slowly stretches across his face.

"He bothers you," he unearths, triumphant. "Donghyuck. He bothers you, doesn't he?"

The Altmer reaches for the mug, desperate for a short breather, but finds it empty and unwilling to grant him that luxury. After a moment of no direct answer, Jeno decides to engage: "What do you know about him?"

As if he just struck it lucky, Jaemin hums low in his throat. "I don't know if I can... let go of such information." Jeno can tell his leg is bouncing under the table. It lightly bumps against his a few times.

So now he can't talk. There seemed to be no issue divulging gossips, incriminating rumors and casual speculations, but once Jeno queries the flow of information Jaemin acts reserved.

It's his turn to raise his hand. "Maybe a drink will help."

When a Nord lady approaches them, Jeno orders a costly Velvet LeChance, a mixture of blackberry, honey, spiced wine with a touch of nightshade flower essence. Normally, he'd treat himself to a mug of the heavenly drink, but he's already had mead and is not trying to return to the College any less sober. Jaemin comments on the pick with a pleasantly surprised _wow_ , as if he wasn't the one who put a price on what he knows.

Once the drink is placed before the Imperial, luring not only him but Jeno as well, the young man takes a small sip, sampling the fantasy; evaluating whether its taste or Jeno's eager expectancy is sweeter.

"Oh my. This is _just_ my taste. I guess I'll have to tell you, since you're giving me no other choice."

Jeno's lips crack into a genuine smile for the first time.

"Let's see... Donghyuck, Donghyuck... I must admit, we're not friends. We're too different, and yet we're too similar. We both play games, but he's too clever for mine, and I'm not competitive enough for his. I've made quite a few observations, but I'm sure you're more interested in facts. I know as much as Renjun has told me."

"That's already more than I do. Go on."

Jeno waits, patiently, as Jaemin enjoys Velvet LeChance and gathers his thoughts. "He's a Wood Elf, from Valenwood – no suprise there. His parents are merchants, wholesalers, I believe, and loaded at that since they were capable of sending off their kid here. They're... wait, I think I heard this from someone else, not Renjun," his brows knit together as he struggles to remember. "His parents want to branch out to the Isles since the Empire is too, well, I shouldn't be saying this about my motherland, but it's stingy. We're wary of strangers meddling in what we excel at. Naturally, the next most viable option is the place that is right in front of them, just a sea away: Summerset. Especially Auridon, given all foreign trade transactions happen through there. You're from Auridon, right?"

"That I am," he says, a little staggered. Jaemin didn't throw a few dry facts at him, no. It was said observations and more, and Jeno's gratified a Velvet LeChance bought him this conversation. "But I don't see Auridon welcoming said guests, either."

"And that's why he needs the warrant," the Imperial suggests with a little nod, all smug. It's almost like they're cracking a case together, so close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. "Just picture this: Donghyuck gets the warrant. There's now an adequate enough offspring of his father standing in line to take over. Adequate enough for High Elves, at least. We all know how much importance your people put on that title. Oh, and you don't know how untrusting High Elves are of us, Imperials, still. Yes, recently you've been letting us in, because we're pressuring you. But a Wood Elf? The warrant could be exactly what they're missing. You're not threatened by them the same way you are by Imperials. They're just Bosmers, they can't and won't do anything: that's what High Elves think. That's what you think of Donghyuck, isn't it?"

Jeno was wrong. He was wrong and silly, thinking they're figuring Donghyuck out together. Jaemin is figuring _him_ out. And he's doing it flawlessly, spot on. These exact words have left both his and Ravaena's mouths before.

"I can't underestimate him, is what you're saying."

There's only one detail absent in Jaemin's otherwise faultless speculation: Jeno’s current feelings. Donghyuck is a Bosmer and no opinion can ever change that, but he’s no longer just one of many. The moment he started plaguing his dreams, Jeno had no other option but to acknowledge him a menace. His Altmeri pride won’t let him do the same in terms of magic, view Donghyuck as an equal, though one thing is for sure: the boy has come dangerously close, evoking unembellished, vile feelings buried deep within. He and Dejun are different; the Dark Elf will never get this close. Jeno just can't pinpoint why, what's the difference. Maybe it is, after all, those curious, provoking eyes.

"Don't misunderstand. I'm rooting for _you_." Jaemin toasts him.

The gesture calls Renjun's confession to his mind. His friend was unbiased and honest, reluctant to believe in conflicting sides while he exerted his magicka to the point of not showing up the next day. That's the price you pay for restoring when unfitted. _What a cruel joke_ , Jeno thinks, but smiles – support is support.

* * *

The books. He's been stalling it, not on purpose and sometimes purposely, because he doesn't want to enter his old sleeping quarters and find Donghyuck's things claiming one of the sides.

Today, however, he's officially done with Conjure Familiar and the novice robes that came with the last novice spell. The Master Wizard handed him the folded garb this morning, and a simple touch of the fabric was enough to feel the heavier, richer energy trapped between the fibers. It was fresh and ancient, foreign and so, so familiar. Jeno couldn't resist trying them on, sporting the apprentice robes outside, even if he doesn't have lectures or training today – he won't for a while with the potion assignment peeking around the corner. He feels powerful with them wrapping around his body. He finally feels like an apprentice.

And so today is a day of closing old chapters. After he retrieves his books – he doesn't remember the titles or what they were even about – he'll never set foot in that room again. If Renjun wants to meet him, he can come over.

Jeno is about to knock on the door when it flings open, his friend Imperial meeting his face with an equally surprised one, except there's urgency in his eyes.

"I came to pick up my stuff," Jeno’s voice trails off as he says it; Renjun looks a little too confused.

"...Oh! Right!" Renjun breathes out. “God, for a second I thought I forgot we were supposed to meet. I'm meeting Jaem– running late, so go in. You can leave the door unlocked. We should hang later though!"

Jeno watches him rush away, a response stuck in his throat. _I can't, I'm seeing Ravaena after this._ He skips the threshold, holding onto the side of the door as he quickly scans the room. Something about this feels wrong. Something about this feels oddly similar to trespassing. There's two single beds on each side of the room, both more narrow than the one back in his own room. Jeno catches the familiar glint of silver by one of them, the idle sword he gave to Renjun propped against the wooden frame, unsheathed for whatever reason. He should suggest they go hunting before the snow piles up and puts the land to sleep like a thick feather comforter. He really should.

Renjun's side is just as he remembers it to be: a little chaotic student disarray, but generally tidy. His, or well, Donghyuck's side is... Jeno doesn't know what to devote his attention to first, the shelves or the little table, different colors strewn all over it. He picks the latter, padding closer with hands behind his back – he won't touch anything in case Donghyuck trained his possessions to shout at intruders. There's a few arrows lying on the table, feathers, shaped, grounded rocks and other stones that seem like they were picked up because they were pretty; a craft in progress. One arrow in particular has a tip of wood, simply sharpened using a knife or a dagger, and there's red thread securing the feathers to all of them. An oblong, golden, metal box is buried under sawdust and short, cut pieces of the same red thread. Placed on the edge there's a book and what looks like a big leaf of the Nirnroot plant protruding from the pages – so they managed to find it – and Jeno almost coughs a laugh at the attempt to dry the moisture out of it, but realizes it's one of his books performing the duty. 

It's fine, he never finished that one and never will. This he can brush off.

Jeno's eyes travel up to the shelf above. He immediately notices two snow-white fangs. Teeth of an Ice Wraith. It’s like he’s in a museum — an artificially constructed hunter’s lair — and he’s looking at these artefacts that each represent a memorable moment in history. The room, the furniture, his books – reflections of his first year here, when he didn't know what to expect, didn't know there'd be no time to read what he'd brought from Auridon. The ice snake's legacy stares at him as the matured present, as his breezy first night after sulking back home and as evidence of reignited want for the warrant. Jeno wonders which of the remaining objects stand for the future.

After scavenging the room for another minute or two, he notices a small stack of books neatly stowed in the corner next to Donghyuck's bed. They're his, Jeno confirms once crouching down, fingers mindlessly flipping through the pages. A single dry leaf hides tucked between the pages thirty-six and thirty-seven, and Jeno carefully takes it for inspection. It's an ordinary tree leaf. Not an ingredient used for potions, not even a herb, just a simple, ordinary tree leaf, which leads Jeno to believe it's a bookmark. He never uses leaves to mark where he left off, and Renjun has never shown interest in his books either. What's even more interesting is that it's a leaf of a tree Jeno recognizes, ones that grow at the foot of the mountain, covering it in gold and fire in autumn. His friend has no business roving around mountains, but Jeno knows who does.

' _Come by to collect your books before I throw them out'_ my ass.

He flips through another one just to see, and surely enough another leaf appears, but this time flies past his grip and under the bed. It's a little awkward, him cleaning the floor with his knees, trying to reach the leaf. Only after grabbing it does he notice the vandalized foot of the bed, he himself being the vandal who carved his name into the wood last spring, but his name is crossed off and instead there's "Hyuck" carved next to it.

Oh, Jeno almost hits his head against the mattress, and it's not even because of the crime he just witnessed, no. Someone just feigned a cough behind him.

There are no words that could describe the embarrassment he feels after turning around and seeing Donghyuck leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyebrows hanging high above his eyes.

"Care to tell me what you're doing under my bed?" he asks and Jeno can swear he starts evaporating, turning into minuscule particles and aborting the room through the smallest window cracks. Unfortunately, it's all mental and there's a physical Donghyuck awaiting his response.

"I'm here to..." he dusts off his knees and quickly picks up the books, "collect these."

Donghyuck steps inside, closer, but not quite approaching him yet. "You’re collecting your books... from under my bed," he hums as if it was a conversation he wanted to show he's following, but there's a hint of suspicion and even accusation in his tone. Jeno’s mood flips — he’s still embarrassed, but he’s also a little irritated. He doesn’t have to explain anything to Donghyuck, not when this was his room, his bed and his signature less than five months ago. He gets up, ready to leave the room and this occurrence forever outside the door of his memory, but Donghyuck blocks his path.

"Move."

Then they stare at each other. Donghyuck doesn’t move, just momentarily drops his gaze to look at Jeno's robes, and the Altmer wonders if he can tell the difference. He can't muster a guess of what the Bosmer is thinking once his eyes are back on him. Jeno's aware of what kind of boats cruise around his mind, however. The muddled figure from his night terror is sunlit in the room enveloped in morning light, not hideous, and definitely not debilitated.

Mentally, Jeno notes how tall Donghyuck really is now that they're this close. By Bosmers' standards, at least. Jeno's not the tallest Altmer either, so what naturally should be an overwhelming difference in height is only a gap of a few inches.

“Aren’t you going to heal that? It might leave a scar,” the boy speaks — a voice of someone alive and well, and strong enough to withstand what lurks inside of Jeno. That thought is somewhat, in an odd way, comforting. He snaps out of his brief trance and realizes it’s the cut on his cheek that Donghyuck is curious about.

“Why? You’re feeling bad?”

“I do feel bad. I feel bad Dejun had no style when dealing with you.”

There’s a few things to unpack here, but Jeno is quick to choose the least relevant and productive one. “I was the one who dealt with him."

The retort treats Donghyuck to a moment of silent consideration before he does what he was told – moves out of the way and leans on his workspace, eyes trained on the window facing the pale courtyard. "If that's what you think."

Jeno watches the Bosmer retreat with a deepening frown. It'd seem the boy was awaiting a confrontation of some sorts, not a flimsy defense, and if Jeno were to guess, Donghyuck expected the confrontation to touch on his worsening reputation, worsened by none other than the boy himself.

"You're an apprentice now," Donghyuck turns to him. "What does that feel like?"

"Like I could beat anyone I wanted."

The Bosmer nods, lips pursed into a tiny pout while he stares at his own leg bouncing languidly. "Even me?"

"Especially you."

Jeno doesn't miss the way Donghyuck bites into his pout – concealing a smile or another unwelcome reaction – and the exchange feels alarmingly close to a promise. Behind his back he's clutching the metal box Jeno saw earlier. It's the nostalgic atmosphere of his old room, the considerably amicable tone of their conversation, the embarrassment that tainted his assertiveness and the lingering images from Jeno's intimate dreams that in this moment cause Jeno to mistake Donghyuck for someone he respects enough to ask. Ask him the question that sprung up after he visited the tavern and pestered him on late evenings, the question he asked himself while watching the first snow fall into the black sea behind his little window. In this moment, he respects Donghyuck enough to hear it from him.

"Why are you after the warrant?"

But Donghyuck doesn't seem to care, neither for Jeno's newfangled respect nor for his question. "Do 'why's' even matter? It exists, I want it, so I'll have it," he states automatically like it's a fact or a response he often gives, and the Altmer can tell it's a lazily covered lie. "And you? Why are you after it?"

He didn't think the boy would continue with the bitterly friendly attitude, so he actually thinks about it for a moment.

"You want it, so I'll have it." It's not exactly a lie. It might be more true than anything he's told Jaemin. Jeno reaches for the door, the books tucked under his armpit, but his hand is glued to the wood once Donghyuck bids a farewell.

"Good luck. May the best elf win."

He must feel it, too. They probably won't have a moment, a brief point of their lines intersecting like this ever again, and whatever there is to say should be said now or never. Outside the bubble of this faux passiveness there's a fight waiting on them in ambush. It could be slow, nasty and fierce, or quick and humiliating, and certainly unavoidable in both cases. The way Donghyuck said the word elf, emphasizing the best part, threatens to burst that bubble ahead of time. There's no room for doubt which elf race is superior, but there's doubt in the question just how elf Donghyuck really is. An Altmer's reaction to that is predicable, not to mention the subtle reminder what Jeno makes of _half-breeds,_ but he wants to preserve this porcelain bubble a little longer.

"Yeah. May that be the case."

He stands rigid once the door is closed behind him and attempts to process at least a fraction of what just went down, but the students passing through the first floor, giving him looks of all kinds scat him away. Jeno turns the corner, takes two stairs at a time and grimaces at the fact Donghyuck caught him sweeping the dust on all fours. Oh, to be a snow particle falling into a black sea, and not the pride of elven race climbing the tower of shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise for making Xiaojun an asshole,, he deserves better and we'll see more of him in the future. That aside, I hope you enjoyed the chapter :}


	4. They Call You an Omen

> _"Skyrim, also known as the Old Kingdom, Throat of the World, the Fatherland, is a vast region set in the northern part of Tamriel. It is the home of the Nords, large and hardy men and women who have a strong resistance to the cold, both natural and magical. Skyrim was originally inhabited by a race of Mer known as the Snow Elves, though after the Nord-Snow Elf war, the Snow Elves were mostly destroyed and the Nords settled the land."_

Jeno instinctively looks up from where Ravaena is holding a book for the both of them, reading its contents aloud. The girl is staring at them just as he expected, shy eyes reverting to her occupied hands once caught peering.

"... garlic, salt – those aren't hard to find. The only ingredient that could pose a problem is Namira's Rot," Ravaena taps on the rough sketch of a mushroom.

They're sitting on the bed, flicking through the recipe and ingredient books they've borrowed from the Arcanaeum, it being Jeno's first time in Ravaena's sleeping quarters. Her roommate, who's an Altmer like them, but significantly shorter and paler in comparison, wasn't supposed to be here. She surprised them with her sudden arrival five minutes ago, and has been secretly eyeing Jeno ever since.

"I don't know. Restorative potions are a little banal. I was thinking something like Paralysis or Invisibility would be better this time."

"They are banal, but you can always add extra ingredients and bank on lingering effects."

She takes one of the open books that lie by her side and quickly skims through, handing it to Jeno once on the right page. The Invisibility potion. _Luna Moth wing, Tundra cotton, Bittergreen petals, Nirnroot_ , he reads, his eyes zeroing in on the last part. A huff escapes his mouth.

"Is it hard to acquire? Should I look for Paralysis?"

"No, it's not that. These ingredients seem accessible, if anything."

Nirnroot is a fairly common additive to health and stamina damaging potions, something Jeno dabbled in last year. Using it for Invisibility means going bigger. Donghyuck's a first-year, he shouldn't go bigger, or at least that's what Jeno is hoping for.

"I'm pretty sure it's possible to find the petals at the local pharmacy. Here it says Luna Moths inhabit the woods, so leave that for last, but don't stall it – they're migrating soon. Nirnroots should–"

"I know where to find those," he interrupts.

"You do? That's good. Tundra cotton grows near the forests of Eastmarch, outside of Winterhold. That's where I was planning on heading tomorrow for the Scathecraw plant. We should go together."

"Scathecraw? What potion?"

"Ravage Health."

They're looking at each other for a moment, but in his peripheral there's another head participating in the silent staring contest. Jeno entertains the third participant by sparing her a glance, but the girl is no competition: she resigns at once.

"That's the potion Agnae brewed during her third year, did you know?" he asks, "I'll be impressed if you manage that, not going to lie. She'll be impressed, too."

"I didn't know." There's a short pause and something in Jeno's mind tells him Ravaena is dwelling on the news. "Let's go today. If you're free."

"Today? I'm free, of course, but..."

She doesn't wait to find out what the but follows, unknown energy hoisting her up, and there's a scarf of enthusiasm cloaking her excited face. "Right now, before it gets dark."

Jeno wants to question the sudden outburst of interest, but Ravaena's anticipating a positive answer, and so he takes stock of how light the sky is outside by looking out the window, quickly reviews today's plans - there's nothing there - and finally gives in, joining her disappearing-through-the-door figure. But not before taking the chance to perform a lighthearted shrug and a friendly smile for Ravaena's roommate, who's been _busy_ refolding the same piece of garb.

(...)

"Your roommate is quite adorable."

They gradually slow down their trotting horses – which they leased from the stables at the foot of Winterhold – at the sight of a rather narrow bridge in the distance and a wagon nearing it on the other side. Under the clatter of hooves hitting the rocky road, Jeno has to force his voice out so it doesn't get left behind. Ravaena, who's proceeding a few feet away from him, gives him a look over her shoulder that seems to ask where Jeno is going with that comment.

"I'm just saying. She was staring at us the entire time," he clarifies and urges his horse to move faster, catching up in seconds.

"Oh, was she? I didn't notice." Ravaena slows down, and now they're more or less moving at the same pace. "Must've been staring at you, only."

The loud hissing of the torrential river starts soaking up the ambience.

"What's her name?" Jeno asks.

"Caria Sillonire."

Doesn't ring a bell, her last name.

"Is she from Summerset?"

Ravaena is holding onto the reins, her forward gaze reflecting on nothing but the absence of presence. She's spacing out, and Jeno is about to call out her name when she suddenly returns and glowers at him. "For the love of Magnus, she's my roommate. Can't you pick someone else?"

Her playfully serious bearing turns sweet. She ends up confirming his question.

"So, won't you share what you're thinking about so passionately? You're somewhere else right now," Jeno nudges as they halt their horses in front of the bridge. The wagon loaded with what looks like potato sacks and a few Nords rolls by slowly, the broody men gutting him open with their cold stares, untrustingly eyeing his and Ravaena's robes. It's easy to forget how leery the locals are of mages, until said locals reside in the outskirts of Winterhold.

"Did you receive any letters lately?" she asks over their blunt acrimony, her head not once turning to heed the passerby.

"No, did you?"

"I did, from my father. And the College of Whispers."

She's the first one to hop onto the bridge, and Jeno has to suck his curiosity in for the time being. He watches the slashing stream gurgling under them as they cross the eastern border of Winterhold, the noise and the uprising inkling working hand in hand to foment a series of thoughts. The College of Whispers. So they contacted Ravaena's family.

Jeno catches up again, "What did they say?"

"The same thing they said to other students. An invitation."

"An invitation? How can there be one to a nonexistent institution?"

"' _An invitation to open your eyes to a future vision_ ', that's how they phrased it," she says casually, confident to diffuse Jeno's confusion, but it remains intact. "Their letter wasn't as important as my father's, however. They reached out to him, too. And he's interested."

"What do you mean he's interested?" Jeno pulls on the reins, but then remembers they've got no time for dramatics and instructs the horse to move again. The sun is still above them, but that doesn't mean it'll wait for their mark to drop down.

"In the letter he told me he can see the vision. He's not engaging with them yet, nor will I respond, so don't look at me like that," she warns – must've sensed Jeno tensing up.

"Didn't master Faralda warn the first-years? They want to bring Necromancy back. I'm afraid I don't see the vision your father is seeing."

"Joroth," she sighs, knowingly, "did you even look into it? Don't just reject opportunities because someone else rejected them. I'll show you the letter. It's not black and white like they tell you it is. Promise me to read it without biased assumptions, okay?"

A delayed but uncontrived _okay_ leaves his mouth, he is sure of that, but the rest of the journey is followed by a conquest of said biased assumptions on his mind. Jeno hates the way his brain links Ravaena's father with the alleged spell tome incident Jaemin told him about. When he keeps watch of their surroundings, making sure no one walks in on them practicing arcane arts outside the borders, he absolutely loathes the sharper, more observant eyes that target Ravaena whenever she casts a spell, as if to see whether it's abnormally too powerful for a rookie mage. But it isn't. Her magicka flow is precise as she encourages the Scathecraw plant to present its prickly leaves, it's bright and colorful, but it's not abnormal.

Guilt hounds him by the time they turn in the horses and the Tundra cotton is secured. Ravaena is right: he wasn't approached by the institution in any shape or form, and yet he's letting others dictate his opinion on the matter. He should at least gather some information first.

A few days later, after having read the promised letter filled with nothing but vague promises and no constructive information, Jeno's sliding a book on the Orc's desk in the Arcanaeum, a book he brought from Summerset Isles last year, and Donghyuck's possession the following. Engraved red leather covers and golden accents – there's no way the librarian could refuse this backhander.

* * *

The aroma of dried herbs permeates the local pharmacy, seeping in and leaving their trace in his clothes, his hair. He feels lightheaded after smelling about a dozen different fronds, flowers, and even spices – some ingredient along the way must've induced said dizziness. Jeno decides it's best he stops exposing his sense of smell and lifts his head from the baskets, the dangling flowery vines above getting all up in his face.

An awkward _hey_ whips at his back. Jeno turns around.

It's Dejun, the same Dunmer who bailed on his dignity and kicked off an avalanche of ghastly dreams and dead memories. There better be an unimaginably urgent or important matter at hand for him to breathe the same heavy air of the pharmacy, Jeno thinks, otherwise he might finish what he previously couldn't.

"What a coincidence! I was just buying something myself and saw you enter, and... I was thinking just the other day that, um... maybe, you know, we could talk things out. This whole bad blood thing between us is... unnecessary."

There was never ‘bad blood’ between them. Jeno wasn’t aware the guy even roamed the College until he was spewing fiery nonsense and melting Jeno’s will to be neutral into icy cold liquid that neither cooled his temper nor froze him to the point of inertia. Now he’s a breath away from choking the guy with the vines.

"What do you want?"

Dejun performs an entire ritual of glancing around the room, fidgeting with the purchased drawstring pouch before he utters a resemblance of an answer to the rather direct question.

"I heard you're friends with Ravaena."

The words reduce Jeno's interest to nothingness, to a hole so black and deep it's absorbing every other existing thought and emotion. "I thought I was being clear when I said I don't ever want to see your face again."

Defeat flashes a faint red on the elf's face and he retreats, granting the Altmer the much needed space. "Got it – no questions. Still, I wanted to say sorry too, for what I said. And what I did. I shouldn't have. I lashed out for no reason. It was an impulse that I couldn't resist in that moment. Fuck, you get it. I'm sorry." Jeno watches as the last vestiges of hope shrivel and turn to sand on the young man's face, and he exits the shop, but not Jeno's mind. Impulses, failed resistance – familiar concepts that once rinsed his soul white and now leave dark, hideous stains with every reappearance.

Behind the counter, a fairly young, red-haired maiden is sorting various herbs into small, weaved baskets, the same ones Jeno was checking out earlier. She's swift with her handwork, almost mechanic: an impressive combination of visual and muscle memory obtained through experience.

"Excuse me, do you perhaps sell Bittergreen petals?" Jeno inquires, but the quick, bony hands don't lose rhythm as the maiden welcomes her guest with an apologetic smile.

"The young man that just left the store took the last batch, but we'll have some by the end of upcoming week, if you're still interested."

Jeno represses the urge to drag a melodious smack across his face.

"That's okay," he says instead.

(...)

The pouch bounces up and down in the hold of Jeno's palm. Dejun's eyes follow the movement with devotion, like a hypnotized feline caged inside the world of kinetic attraction. Instead of entertainment uneasiness can be read on his sharp face. Jeno is enjoying the atmosphere he has created, Dejun's compliance, the slow bobbing of his adam's apple. The pouch lands and doesn't get launched again because Jeno just made his verdict. His fingers possessively curl around the Dark Elf's purchase, claiming it his own.

"Alright, I accept your apology," he speaks like he has all the authority in the world. He does, in this moment, over the Dunmer.

Their conversation is tucked away from the main street between two wooden buildings, a private matter not to be meddled with. Jeno's leaning against the wall of one of them, while the one he caught up to and dragged here is standing on his two feet, stiff, but prepared to negotiate.

"Okay. Great."

"You mentioned Ravaena. What is it that you want to know?"

Jeno braces himself for the answer, a deep frown replacing his previously smug demeanor. Whatever it may be, he'll do his best and not overreact on the behalf of his friend. Dejun takes his sweet time, ferments the Altmer's suspicion even further.

"You see... I know what I said about Altmers wasn't the nicest. At that time I did feel that way about you and every other Altmer, or so I thought. Ravaena is so much better than me at everything she does, and I was infuriated for the longest time." – _true,_ Jeno thinks – "I... you could say _reflected_ on myself and realized that... it's not fury. I'm actually quite smitten with her, and the reason I attacked you was because I thought you were her lover. At least that's what others were telling me."

Jeno blinks. He doesn't know how to react to someone vomiting the contents of their heart right in front of his garden, where only flowers made of anger and indifference bloom. His lips twitch, ready to produce some sort of sound, but his switching emotions leave no latitude for that. One second he feels his frown reinforcing its position on his face, another – surprise, shock and puzzlement twist into one rope and birch his back. It's too late for control breaths, because he's suddenly stomping on Dejun's confession by laughing in his face.

"I'm serious." The elf's brows furrow.

"I can tell." _That's why I'm laughing._ Jeno exhales shaky breaths through his nostrils, laughter tickling his sides still. He's shaking his head, ridding himself of this inappropriate behavior. It's a little funny and twice as absurd. "I just don't know what you want me to do with that."

"I wanted to clear things up," Dejun glares. His irritation is understandable, and he stands with his shoulders more square yet relaxed compared to before, bathing in stinging regret, hands clasped on his hips as his head continues to glance at the busy street behind them. "Could you maybe ask her what she thinks of me?"

Oh, Jeno doesn't have to ask. The answer is so obvious it pains even him: she doesn't. Ravaena doesn't think about Dejun, never once mentioned him under any circumstance, not even when Jeno was curious about lectures or training. But he doesn't have the heart to state the obvious right now.

"I don't know, could I?" he stalls it.

"Yes. I already gave you the petals."

"Oh, no, no. These," Jeno holds the pouch by the drawstring and wags it in Dejun's face, "are for the damage you've caused. My blood is expensive, as is my pride, and you've spilled both."

"What else do you want me to do?"

There's impatience growing in the other's voice. Jeno pretends to think for a second, milking the situation.

"How good are you with your sword?" he asks.

* * *

Good enough, Jeno concludes as steel clashes against silver, sparks fly past their connected glares - or maybe it's not sparks, but snow falling from a greying sky. They pause to gaze at the vast paleness of it in unison: crystal snowflakes land soft promises of a cold winter on Jeno's eyelashes. His sword drops by his side, hitting his leg, and for a second his head is so clear and empty from gasping a lungful of fresh air; he wants to savor this moment.

"Let's take a rest," he rolls his shoulders back and stretches his neck – everything feels a little more tense than he would prefer. Dejun agrees with a spent nod and scavenges the ground for a place to sit, but even the dirt and grass are pale and reek of cold. So they both pant and recover in a standing position.

"You know, I thought you'd have a more elegant fighting style. A hand behind your back as you pierce your way through with quick jabs, and all that. You fight like a frenzied warrior."

Jeno laughs. "I've been told that."

“I like that, though. Reminds me of my grand, grand, grand, grandfather. He fought in the Great War.”

Again, he laughs. He can maintain a form if he puts his mind to it, but if truth be told, he was just a tad disrespectful this entire time with his thoughts elsewhere. Yesterday, after gathering enough information from the Orc Urag gro-Shub and Faralda, he paid Ravaena a visit in hopes of shining some light on the whole College of Whispers affair. It's an institution sanctioned by an unidentified group of Imperials, focused more on politics rather than actual teachings of magic, and Jeno was almost sure they reached out to Ravaena's father with the intention to convert his policy towards a direction more convenient for the College's notions. He warned his friend. He suggested she stays away and tells her father to do the same. But Ravaena's accord was so faint that Jeno barely convinced himself to accept it, and she didn't show him her father's letter either, said it was private.

And Jeno then recalled an unpleasant memory – he never knew it was unpleasant until it manifested itself under revelatory circumstances – the blurry image of his father's figure subtly swinging side to side inside of a moving carriage, his lips murmuring words way too heavy with meaning for a child's cognizance: _the Altmer shall rise again one day._

But right now the air is so crisp and devoid of life, of either joy and misery, and there is no reason for him to recall unpleasant memories or create new ones. He lets the pretty snowflakes lay a blanket of white on his mind.

"What are you training for?" Dejun disrupts the peace in the worst way possible. "You're gonna fight Donghyuck?"

Jeno snickers. "Is this a thing between the first-years now? Him and I getting grouped as foes?"

"I mean, you're both after the warrant, and I bet he's still sour about the half-breed thing," – _the word_ is said through hushed lips, – "I know I would be. Don't you think he'll want to get back for that?"

"Well, I have no desire to fight him. Not physically, at least. I'd be much more interested in fighting his Redguard friend. He looks strong."

"Yukhei? Are you sure? He wields two-handed weapons, like warhammers and battleaxes."

"Nevermind," Jeno scrunches his nose and it's Dejun's turn to sound amused.

They grip their weapons, feet ground into the freezing land, and the battle of stamina more than strength ensues once more. The training grounds are aberrantly empty today, and there's the silly thought that he's sparring with someone who tried to attack him not that long ago, but the amusement it brings doesn't last. Damn Dejun for bringing Donghyuck up. He needs to acquire the remaining ingredient – wings of a Luna Moth, and he needs to do it fast.

* * *

What was supposed to be a quick trip to the town below developed into a pressing want to venture the woods, and eventually into the prosecution of said want. He's slightly underprepared, having only his luck and magicka to rely on. There was a tied horse at the entrance of the forest, one he recognizes from the stables and would never choose, and Jeno assumes it's a good thing. Sometimes, when he's really focused on spotting the moth, he can feel someone hawking at him from behind, and that, Jeno assumes, is a bad thing. But every time he whips round to catch the stalker, he's met with awkwardness of finding nothing but rows upon rows of tree trunks and possible paranoia.

The Luna Moth is a giant insect the size of a bird, tabby and often hiding in perfect blend with nature, more specifically the bark of a tree. He came across a few last year, when he wasn't looking for them of course, and they're not as common as he remembers them to be.

Jeno ends up wrapping his tired arms around one of the trees, pressing his tired head against it, and groans tiredly – he's tired. He should've dragged Renjun along for emotional support that would come in the shape of nagging. Jeno could then at least pretend he's the determined one, but now he's failing to seek out this last puzzle piece and he's not entirely sure which way he came from. It's not a sparse forest, no – there's shrubs, ferns, and smaller trees filling the middle layer, making the search even harder. The terrain is bumpy, too.

And then the bark of a tree in front of him shifts. It moves. It flutters its wings. Jeno blinks a few times to make sure it's not a mirage of a man lost in the sea of sand. He makes sure it's not a desert rose he's staring at, and then he slowly detaches himself from the tree, sneaks towards the sole thing keeping him away from the completion of the tiresome potion assignment. The moth is a few inches away, right in front of his face, and Jeno's contemplating whether he should use fire or ice. Unlike Dejun he never learnt how to conjure daggers – elemental magic seemed more exciting and mysterious, less to the point – and this is the first time he's regretting that decision. Ice, he decides. Less painful and messy.

Icy light gathers in the claw of his hand, ready to be unleashed, but the Altmer is still being cautious. He takes a step back, just in case, and he's lifting his hand–

_Whoosh._

Jeno stops breathing. Not on his own accord, no: his breathing was brutally severed. The arrow tremors before his eyes, the same way the captured moth is struggling against the near fatal blow. He jolts around and rakes the area with a panicked look, but just like before, there's no one there. This time, however, he's sure it's not paranoia that almost got his head. He glances sideways without twisting his neck and the initial shock crumbles and shells off like clay. An arrow is pierced through the moth's wing, its feathers tied tight with red string.

He's close to growling as he grabs the arrow to extract it. What a show-off. Jeno wants to snap it like a twig in his fist, but tosses it aside in the bushes. The moth is twitching in his other hand, attempting to move its remaining uninjured wing, and heat quickly accumulates in that fist – brutally scorching its head until it's rendered motionless.

"Hey, hey!" A fluff of copper hair emerges from behind the camouflage of tree trunks and dried shrubs. The hunter is far enough for the accuracy to seem more impressive than it already was. "Don't burn it! I'll need that."

Jeno clenches his jaw as he watches the Bosmer guardedly approach him. The bow is held behind his back like a secret, like a gesture of ceasefire, while his other hand's fingers curl inwards emptily.

"You missed your target," Jeno speaks, bitter. The corners of Donghyuck's cautious stare grow sharper. "My head."

The hunter visibly relaxes at that, even slips in a satisfied smile. "I'm saving that shot for another time." His gloved hand opens up before Jeno like a flytrap and with his eyes Donghyuck pokes at the moth in his possession.

"What potion?" Jeno slurs a monotonous demand. He's not giving the Bosmer the moth he's been struggling way too hard to find, doesn't matter what potion it is. Still, he wants to know.

"Invisibility."

"You're a first-year. Stay in your lane."

"And end up without the warrant like you did?" instantly comes the fatal response, snappier than Jeno's intentions yet calmer than his demeanor.

Oh. _Oh_. What a fierce comeback, truly. It punctures the surface of deep, still waters that is Jeno's being, and the meaning of it resonates endlessly, creating waves that lap over each other. There's an underwater volcano in that sea rumbling silently, foreshadowing an eruption. Learning from another's mistakes never sounded so brutal.

But Jeno hates breaking promises he made to himself the most, and if on that lonely night, between shallow breaths, he swore to never show too much raw emotion again, then he'll follow through with it. In this moment of his resolve being put to the test, all he can do is direct his focus elsewhere, somewhere behind the perpetrator, the pirate who's sailing his seas without permission. Donghyuck turns his head to follow Jeno's gaze, questioning the course of it, and the Altmer finds the action highly annoying but doesn't show it.

"Come on. Give me the moth."

"After you creepily followed me all the way here? No way."

"' _Creepily followed_?' It's called stalking your prey."

_That's even worse_ , Jeno thinks. "Go _stalk_ yourself a moth and leave me alone."

"I already did. The one who hits is the one who takes: that's the protocol of hunting. If I recall correctly my arrow hit the moth, so" Donghyuck wiggles his fingers.

He couldn't care less about hunting protocols and what they entail, but the loophole in the argument is visible to the point of being humorous and Jeno decides two can play this childish game. "Your arrow only crippled it. My magic finished it off."

Donghyuck casts him a narrowed look. "A moth has two wings. We could share," he raises the suggestion, which Jeno rejects with a hard no. The boy then looks around for a moment – there's no signs of giving up yet – and Jeno wonders how much a push to the side and a getaway would backfire and if Donghyuck would dare to shoot his receding back.

"Let's make a deal, then," the Bosmer is still trying, and he points a finger at something behind Jeno, "if you can hit that abandoned beehive with my bow while standing where you do, then you can keep the moth."

The fact Donghyuck thinks he has the right to even pretend to the moth is nonsensical, but then he deliberately ruffles Jeno's pride by proposing he shows how it's done first, and the Altmer finds himself yanking the bow out of his offering grip. He stares at the long bone for a second – the creature it was nabbed from must've been huge – and then at Donghyuck. How barbaric.

The Bosmer supplies him with an arrow – judging from the lack of red personalization not a handmade one – and the moth temporarily winds up in Donghyuck's hands. Jeno inhales as he lifts the bow. At the tip of a positioned arrow there's a beehive hanging from a branch in the distance, like a drop of thick black liquid frozen in place destined to never droop down. From what he remembers he's always been a decent archer, but archery is not something he was ever particularly interested in and so he never had proper training. Now he's shooting to prove something to a Bosmer, a member of the race that shelters the best archers in all of Tamriel. He exhales and let's go. It doesn't hit the target, but it zooms right past it, which is more disappointing than missing altogether.

"Wow. I was generous with the pick, but you're really bad–"

A horrifying screech coming from the dead greenery further away – where the arrow disappeared – halts Donghyuck's victorious jibe.

"Oh, fuck," he exclaims and grabs Jeno's arm upon noticing that the Altmer is gathering magicka in his palms. "Don't be stupid. You can't fight that, we gotta move!"

Jeno allows himself to be dragged away, hidden from danger behind the shelter of a dip in the ground and a fallen trunk of a tree. Their wildered eyes find each other once safe, and Donghyuck risks a sneaky peek. He gasps.

"It's there. Looking for us," he whispers.

Curiosity gets better of him and Jeno, too, lifts his nose in an attempt to get a glimpse of the creature that made the eerie sound. It's a Spriggan, a tree-like humanoid creature entirely composed of wood and magical energy, the defender of the forest. A red glow can be seen burning warmly within it, and now that it's frantically pacing around with an arrow sticking out of its ribs, the red light feels like a warning.

"I didn't know there were Spriggans in these woods," Jeno tells Donghyuck. He'd otherwise never venture without a weapon.

"There's plenty. Usually they're hiding, but I'd be pretty mad too if I was shot unprovoked."

"You must know how I feel then."

Donghyuck snorts. Jeno only then notices that the boy is holding onto his knee for extra support and wriggles it lightly in an effort to pass him a hint. Donghyuck gets it and retracts his hand. The sounds of pain and anger are dimming down, thankfully, but soon enough new ones emerge, this time from right beside him: Donghyuck is shuddering with noiseless laughter. Jeno ponders whether or not he should entertain the Bosmer.

"What is it?" he asks.

Donghyuck turns to him, the want to smile detectable through his pressed lips. "I have a confession to make."

All of a sudden, he's not sure he wants to hear it.

"I lied," the boy continues, "that beehive wasn't abandoned. So, like, I thought we'd be hiding from Frost Bees, not a Spriggan."

Why. Why did he not question whether it was really abandoned or not. That's a mistake on his part, but he was mad, mostly, and a fragment of him wanted to believe Donghyuck's an experienced venturer whose judgement he could _trust_. Now, there's no way he can endure another second pressed to this guy, who's currently staring him down with a suspended grin and hungry for a reaction eyes. So he stands up and almost curses when Donghyuck pulls him down by his wrist, boldly touching him again. 

"Are you crazy? You'll catch its attention."

Jeno jerks his hand away. "Maybe that's what I'm trying to do."

"You can't even hit a target, let alone try to take on a Spriggan. We only have to stay here for another minute or two, you won't die. You will if you leave now, though."

And maybe that's the best case scenario, Jeno blurts out, but only to himself, mentally. He stays put, his expression worsening and then loosening when he regains composure, but there goes Donghyuck spoiling it again.

"So we agree I'm keeping the moth, right?"

* * *

Above the alchemy table, Jeno grinds the Nirnroot inside a small wooden bowl. An installed little furnace heats up the main glass bubble that connects to smaller ones: a line of greenish flasks outline the table, leading the simmering liquid to the very center of an engraved pentagram, where it further travels down a straight line before drooping down. The liquid doesn't start leaking before the potion is finished, though.

"Looks pretty good. You should try putting it in." Renjun appears from behind his shoulder only to insert a comment and disappear again like he’s a poltergeist haunting the premises.

They're the only ones lurking in the basement of the main tower on a Saturday night. The other alchemy table located in the Hall of Attainment is more convenient, thus is currently occupied by first-years who needed guidance.

"Isn't it a little spooky to be here by ourselves at this hour?" Renjun asks him. He's already done with his Resist Fire potion and volunteered to accompany Jeno down here because he _wanted to monitor the process_. Jeno thinks the reality is a bit different and it's all about having a pretext to leave their stuffy tower.

"You're talking about the portal?"

"Yeah. It's just... what if something exits it while we're here."

Jeno looks over his shoulder for a moment. In the middle of the warmly lit basement there's a perfectly round hole in the ground. It emits a deep purple hue, even through the wooden plank lid covering it from anyone's curious eyes. Soul Cairn – the end destination of the portal, a frozen-in-time place inhabited by souls and undead.

"That's impossible. Souls can't leave the Cairn unless someone from this side retrieves them. Mortals can't enter the portal either, though." Jeno carefully pours the dark mass inside the top flask. "But even if the creatures could pass it, most of them aren't hostile. It's just souls of the people who were soul trapped before being killed."

"That's... pretty sad. I expected ghosts and monsters, not a heartfelt tragedy," Renjun sighs.

"Oh, you wanted monsters? Well, there's these–"

"Wait! Tell me when we get out of here."

"Okay," the Altmer quiets down and picks Bittergreen petals as the next ingredient to prepare. "So there's Wrathmen, and they–"

He receives a well-deserved whack on the back, to which he responds with a breathless laugh and an _ouch_.

"I'm not here to play."

"He's not here to play," Jeno echoes.

"He isn't," the Imperial casts back. "How do you know about the Soul Cairn, though?"

"I read the memoir of this High Elf during the break. He talked about the portal a lot. Then my brother told me he practiced Necromancy and it suddenly made sense. Want me to tell you about the Ideal Masters?"

"If they're not scary."

"So," Jeno clears his throat as he adds the ground petals into the bubbling mixture, "they're the rulers of Soul Cairn. They're..." he pauses and tries to remember that one specific word that was used in the book, and that his mind tripped over the first time he read it, "...enigmatic. There's only theories, nothing is certain, but it's believed that the Cairn exits only because of their hunger. They collect souls and feed on them. Some say they use the souls as a form of currency to an even higher power. Nelacar, the High Elf I was talking about, visited the realm a couple of times."

He looks over at his friend who seems to be listening with perked ears. "But didn't you say mortals can't enter the portal?"

"They can if they trap a fragment of their soul and leave it here."

Renjun frowns as he approaches the table again. He rolls up the sleeves of his robes. "And what kind of idiot would willingly do that?"

"An Altmer."

The answer has Renjun eyeing him suspiciously.

"I wouldn't, I'm not dreaming of dying yet. And I don't know how to trap a soul," Jeno attempts to appease the accusing look. "You're going to help me?"

"Yeah, why not make myself useful while I'm here," he takes the Luna Moth wing from the tray that's attached to the table. "What do I do with this?"

"Break it into smaller pieces first."

There's only the small fluff of Tundra cotton left on the tray. Jeno tears thinner pieces out, rolling them with the heel of his palm against the metal table so they can fit through the the narrow neck of the flask.

"Why is there a hole in this wing? What did you make the poor moth go through?"

Jeno opts for the easiest but still true response: "a lot."

The moth was punctured with an arrow, burned and disrespectfully fought over long after its deplorable death. In the end, Jeno called a truce and they split the wings, him being the one to keep the damaged one because he missed his shot. Donghyuck even offered they find the way out of the woods together, which bruised Jeno's ego because _he definitely wasn't lost and knew the way back_. It also greatly confused him. Donghyuck made fun of his incompetence from last year, he tricked Jeno into hitting a beehive swarming with frost bees, which resulted in upsetting a creature much grander. Those actions correspond to how Jeno sees the situation. They correspond to how Jeno treats Donghyuck. But then there's random gleams of passiveness and even friendliness that he thought they had locked away behind the door to his old sleeping quarters. He rebuffed the help and by the time he found the exit, the horse was already gone.

“Is Jaemin done with his potion yet?” Jeno changes the topic as Renjun sprinkles the crumbled wings inside the glass tube, grey glitter made from reflective pieces.

“Yup. His third-year friends helped him a lot, so he finished quite early. Now I barely see him since he has a lot of free time and spends most of it in the town.”

“So I'm the last to finish mine."

"Seems like it. Well, no, Donghyuck's still missing something," Renjun quickly checks if something negative appears in Jeno's expression, like he always does when he accidentally or purposely lets the Bosmer's name slip out. "Come to think of it, you're both brewing the same thing."

"Oh, really?" he tries to feign surprise, but the pitch of his voice doesn't change so it comes out very flat. It draws a snort out of Renjun.

"You don't sound surprised."

"Well... he doesn't faze me as much as some of you think he does," Dejun comes to mind as he lays this out for Renjun, "I really don't care what he's doing and I wish people stopped acting like he's my arch-enemy." Which, in some ways he is, but he's not as big of a threat as others make him seem to be.

The Imperial nods, his eyes fixated on the mixture; the last ingredient slowly transforms it into a glistening mass.

"That's fair." He waits a few long seconds, then: "did you know he was picked to represent the students in the annual trip to Cyrodiil?"

Jeno slams a fist on top of the alchemy table. The entire contraption trembles like an aspen tree shaken by light wind. "What? When?"

"It's a joke, it's a joke!" His friend holds the table down with one hand to stabilize it, carefully cups the glass flask with another and shows Jeno what real surprise should look like. But there's also mirth dancing on his lips, forecasting a teasing remark. "I would say something, but you already know what you _disproved_ just now."

It's sort of embarrassing, the little effort it took to provoke him. So he acts mad by telling Renjun he'll drag him inside the portal if he doesn't shut it, brows furrowed as he rummages the basement for an empty vial. Maybe he is mad. Renjun always poses as the middleman, but is the first to toy with the curbs on his anger. He's also mad at himself, because he often fails to see it's playful, lighthearted. He scoops a vial out of a cupboard. The mixture is ready, it's fuzzing in the hollow of the table, expanding. It's clear but foggy, denser than the potion he brewed last year, and it travels down the little canal until it drops down like a misty waterfall. Jeno's holding the vial right above the drop point – it drizzles inside like caramel.

"Though Donghyuck said he wants to be the representative, so it wasn't entirely a lie."

Jeno sighs through his nose and does everything in a very calm manner from that point on. He carefully plugs the vial, places it on the table like it could shatter at any given moment and offers the Imperial a smile so sweet it visibly disturbs his friend. He then wraps an arm around him, the sadistic smile never leaving his face, and urges Renjun to move forward.

"No! We can talk this out, no!" his friend tries to break loose from the iron grip, and when that doesn't work, pushes his feet against the floor as hard as he can. Jeno saves him the trouble and picks him up like Renjun doesn't weigh half of what he does, though he's huffing, just internally. With a screaming Imperial on his shoulder he circles the portal.

"Oh, look, a portal. How convenient. I was just looking for one to throw you in."

"You wouldn't," Renjun pounds a fist into his back.

"Really? But I will. Right now."

Jeno laughs as he puts his thrashing friend down. He could pretend the punches are as soothing as a back massage, but he can't ignore his sore arms reminding him he spent today's morning in the training fields with the Dark Elf. Renjun scurries away to snatch the vial with the Invisibility potion - something to hold against Jeno in case he's not satisfied yet. The Altmer's amusement dies down as he abandons the sight of his friend holding the vial in the air like a torch that's supposed to ward him off, and stares at the veiled portal instead. He can feel the dark energy escaping the cracks, reaching out. It reaches him, it tugs on his soul. Jeno crouches down and places his palm flat against the wood.

"You're not going to actually open it, are you?" he hears Renjun say from where he's standing close to the table.

"They never showed us what's behind this. I'll take a quick look."

He's forcing the lid upwards, but it's too heavy, so he pushes on it instead.

"This is a bad idea," the voice is now right behind him, and it's telling him the same thing as the one in his head, the voice of reason, but Jeno successfully ignores it.

Bright light first illuminates their faces, then the rest of the room; on the stone walls, their figures cast stark shadows against the violet backdrop. They unite forces, Renjun joining to help him remove the lid completely at one point, and they're left staring at the passageway to another realm, utterly mesmerized. A huge cauldron opens up before them: it holds an ocean of purple lightning, of black and blue, of energy bigger than anything they've ever felt before. Stairs of floating rocks descent into the unknown. They raise their heads to stare at each other with matching looks on their faces. It's grand, it's transcendent, it's beautiful. It's dangerous.

Jeno disregards Renjun's disapproving eyes as he dares to touch the surface. A wave of electricity zaps him lightly, but it's not enough to hurt him so he plucks up the courage to flatten his palm. It almost feels like there's a screen separating the two worlds, and the power residing on the other side is inviting him to sink in deeper, but he's too... whole. He's too full. He's complete, thus he can't enter.

His instincts spike up.

"Someone's here–"

By the time he turns around it's already too late. Their Destruction master Faralda is towering over them, her hands hidden behind her back. The light cuts her sharp face into shapes of pale and dark, making her look like she's a creature familiar to Soul Cairn.

"I see you felt my Muffle. Your magicka is growing sharper. It can be observant, too, just like us," she instructs, all casual.

Under any other scenario Jeno would receive this compliment like it's a blessing, he'd recall Johnny, and he'd tell his younger self he's finally able to apprehend this spell. Under the current one, however, the compliment feels a little too untoward and undeserving. It's way past the curfew, his hand is touching the portal he himself uncovered, and Renjun looks like he's going to faint face down onto the electric screen.

"What?" Faralda grimaces and the shadows on her face grimace with her. "What's with these long faces? Did I ruin the fun?"

"No, we were just... looking," Jeno tries, but there's no way out of this, really.

"I'm not going to scold you, so you can take that breath, young man," she's speaking to Renjun now. "Or should I?"

The Imperial shakes his head promptly.

"I wouldn't say you're allowed to do as you please, but there's no restrictions regarding the portal. We closed it off, because..." Faralda twists a band of what looks like gold off her ring finger, holds it in her fist above the sea that is Soul Cairn before she easily lets go. The ring passes the screen and disappears into the void, but soon the ground under them rumbles gently and inside the pot lightning can be seen and thunders can be heard. "...because items can fall down the portal. The realm rejected it as you could see. It's just another particle of dust now living among the dead."

"So... you can't retrieve your ring?" Jeno asks dumbly. He's a little stupefied.

"Oh, don't worry, it was old. And I rejected the man who gave it to me. The Cairn did, too..."

Him and Renjun exchange wordless looks across the portal. They both seem to be thinking the same thing: their Destruction teacher is truly one of a kind.

"Now," she curtly claps twice, "enough _looking._ You must head back to your rooms. We don't want the Master Wizard to find out you're here."

Faralda remains in her spot like a statute while they clumsily drag the lid back on. The purple is drained from the walls, the furniture and lastly the floor as the opening closes, and Jeno feels as if the electric waves spat him ashore onto dry land that lacks color. He hands over the freshly brewed Invisibility potion and his master tells him to check in tomorrow for a throughout evaluation.

"Treberia, was it you who was screaming? Quite the voice you got there. Where does it go during my lectures, hm?" the woman asks teasingly once they're crossing the deserted courtyard save for the large sculpture of a mage stationed in the middle. So that's what motivated her to check the basement. Even beneath the darkness of the night Jeno can see Renjun flush.

They stop in front of the Hall of Attainment, the boys bowing their goodbyes, grateful their teacher reacted the way she did.

"Joroth, won't you stay for a second?"

"Yes?"

Her lips accompany a leaving Renjun with the subtlest smile, but once the door shuts, she puts on a serious face. Jeno automatically gets serious, too. There's a moment of them waiting for the Imperial to disappear further within the thick walls and the grave mood besets the courtyard.

"Did you talk to Miss Grayore?" she starts.

"I did."

"What did she say?"

The immediate compulsion to sugarcoat it laces into him so abruptly. So predictably. "She told me she won't attend to their future notices and requests."

"And her father? Did you find out what the letter was about?"

Jeno swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm afraid I can't ask him. I don't have that sort of reach yet, but I trust Mr. Grayore to be wise. As for the letter... I decided it was a private matter, I didn't want to pry. But I'm sure it's nothing that concerns us."

The woman doesn't respond forthwith, just pensively stares into him.

"Let's hope so. Last night it came to my attention that the College of Whispers will send a representative to the Cyrodiil convention. The news greatly shook all of the teachers who were in on the matter, since the institution is neither official nor legal. Something or _someone_ from the Empire is guarding it, that much is clear, and the only questions left are who and why. Something sinister is looming in the shadows, Joroth. I know you're protecting your friend, but inform your mother. Both about the convention and the letters."

Jeno nods. All he can do right now is nod pointlessly.

"She's most likely in the know already, but I shall. Does this mean I could, perhaps, be recommended by you to attend the convention? If given the chance I'd like to see their representative."

Judging by the prolonged silence, there's something his master wishes she could withhold. 

"I won't lie we were thinking of sending Ravaena – she's the brilliant of rookie mages. But given the situation that no longer seems like a good idea. I'll talk to the Arch-Mage. The convention is half a month away; we still got time to switch her out."

That night Jeno fends off the first few ripples of melatonin doping his brain, because he can't put this decision off for sleep. Should he write to his mother? Of course he should. He must. Should he mention the letters and betray Ravaena's trust in the process? She broached the subject, mentioned her father's interest, and now Jeno will report on that mistake in a letter and dispatch it across Tamriel. No, he can't do that. He won't accuse his friend over faint sparks of incrimination. It's not like receiving the letter was her fault, the same way her father's interest is his own only. If anything, he can deal with whatever may come of it.

Jeno hops from his armchair to the chair at his desk, and casts Candlelight to hover above. An empty sheet of paper and a quill dipped in a bottle of ink are already waiting for his mark. _Dear Mother,_ he starts.


	5. If I Were You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a shorter chapter than usual (7k) because i really wanted to post something. if you're following and enjoying this story, don't shy away from commenting or leaving kudos - it really means a lot and brightens my day. i've been struggling with unwanted feelings recently, but then i discovered statistics and saw 9 people were subscribed to this. i shall write in your honor, my queens and kings. 
> 
> if there's anything you'd like to ask or say, [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my curiouscat.
> 
> hope you enjoy this chapter :}

> _"The Dunmer, also known as Dark Elves, are the ash-skinned, typically red-eyed elven peoples of Morrowind. "Dark" is commonly understood as meaning such characteristics as "dark-skinned", "gloomy", "ill-favored by fate" and so on. The Dunmer and their national identity, however, embrace these various connotations with enthusiasm. In the Empire, "Dark Elf" is the common usage, but among their elven brethren they are called "Dunmer". Their combination of powerful intellects with strong and agile physiques produce superior warriors and sorcerers."_

That day Lorathaels celebrated. That day their manor reflected gold instead of the usual white.

Taalia Lorathael won the local election and secured herself a chair in the Thalmor – the ruling body of government consisting of the leaders of Altmeri Dominion. She became Auridon's kinlady, governing their little island. She could finally start concretizing her dream.

In some ways it was a simpler time, back then. Jeno had sixteen years on his resume and still attended a private school in the city of Skywatch. With its tall spires and marble towers dominating the crystal skyline, the city was always shining in his memory. He only returned home on holidays, and so did his brother who at that time was in his third year of College, on the verge of graduating. Jeno couldn't have seen it coming back then, but it was the last summer before Johnny's otherwise uniform visits became less and less frequent.

"Mother's battle has started," he had told Jeno. "You must always be on her side. Never betray her."

"I know."

Those words marked the exact moment their manor started feeling like home again. Two years prior to their utterance his father had passed away. In a whirlpool of destructive grief, the following winter Jeno had made a grievous mistake. The idea, the memory of home was pure, whiter than white, and he no longer belonged to that world. His brother, always on the defensive for their family, did. His accomplished sister, no doubt, did as well. What had previously been home was starting to feel so unfamiliar, and Jeno, an inconsiderate son, darkened their manor's door with every visit. There were many things Johnny could've said to him instead, but he chose those words. _Protect our mother; protect our home, because I won't be here._

Four years later Jeno is seas, provinces away from his mother, and he just dispatched a letter that's missing what could be crucial information. Did he just choose Ravaena over her? Did he break the promise?

He won't have the luxury of knowing the answer. Right now, only time can prove whether or not Sir Grayore's interest was of any concern. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's as irrelevant as him expecting the worst over a letter he's never read. After being recommended by Faralda, he's currently on his way to the Hall of Countenance. The hall houses the sleeping quarters of the more advanced mages of the College, such as the masters and students who have chosen the further path to magic. That's where his sister will stay after completing her Destruction training.

There is a thorn of regret poking his side: perhaps he shouldn't have told Faralda. He shouldn't have taken Ravaena's spot. The way he did it feels slimy, like a conspiracy he spliced behind their friendship. They've called him in for a quick summary over the trip – he was picked in the end – to Master Wizard's office on the second floor. The tower, although identical from the outside, is much more cozy and furnished compared to the students'. And the banners aren't moth-eaten.

Jeno stills before the decisive knock on the door. The College of Whispers has stayed true to its name — until now it was a series of secretive whispers, a faraway abstraction. That'll no longer be the case once he enters through this door and secures himself a direct meeting with its representatives. He hears a ' _come in_ ' once his knuckles tap against the wood. Jeno wants to fling the door shut as soon as he opens it – _why is there that damned Bosmer filling one of the chairs_? In order to be polite he, for a second, pretends it's only him and the Master Wizard in the chilly room and reaches for her hand over the disorganized desk.

"We were waiting on you, Jeno. Take a seat," she gestures as she lowers in her chair. The seat the woman just pointed at is right in front of her desk, next to Donghyuck's. The Altmer sits down without granting the boy even the smallest look.

"You can't teach punctuality," the Bosmer chimes in, though the remark doesn't go past his breath.

Jeno now wishes the Master Wizard was the one who was absent — there are a few things he’d like to say to that. He fidgets in his seat, tries to make himself comfortable — he's not. He's not comfortable, at all.

“Alright, now that Jeno is here we can start discussing this. In a week's time you'll be on the train to the capital – the Imperial City. It's quite a long ride – eight hours or so. For that reason you'll leave Winterhold early in the morning and will be compelled to stay the night in the Empire. As always, the accommodation the Imperials provide is out of our control but so far they've been generous with their proposals. Pack the basics, only. As for the clothing, it's your choice. There's no need to don the robes unless you prefer them, but bear in mind, the world of magic ends with our College's borders, and the reaction people have to mages varies. It's not always positive."

Is it ever positive outside of the Summerset Isles, he wonders.

"You'll be representing the student body of our College. But there's no real responsibility in that position – once you're picked, you can start preparing for an excursive trip. As Refayj once said, 'there is but one city in the Imperial Province, but one city in Tamriel, but one city in the world; that, my brothers, is the city of the Cyrodiils'," she declaims in a serious tone. Must've been awaiting the moment she could hit them with that line. "But to us, mages, Winterhold is the only one."

"Indeed. I love Winterhold," Donghyuck agrees at his side, a little too seriously, a little too zealously. Jeno shoots him a sidelong glance, and Donghyuck does the same. There's an aura of smugness around him, thin but definite. Oh, he's kowtowing to the Master Wizard, isn't he.

The woman cracks a smile at the Bosmer's flattery. "But of course, the Imperial City is beautiful, and I hope you'll enjoy your time there. The Arch-Mage will be going as well – he's the one who'll see to the sponsors and other supporters of our College. You'll just have to be two young, promising students by his side, pleasing the guests' eyes and confirming that their contributions are worthwhile. Doesn't sound hard, does it?"

"I‘m afraid I misheard you. _Two_?"

"Yes, Jeno. You and Donghyuck."

"I wasn't aware two representatives was a possibility."

"It is. The Arch-Mage himself suggested Donghyuck should go."

The Arch-Mage. The leader of the College of Winterhold. Why would a cultivated man such as himself recommend a Bosmer to represent their institution? Not to mention Jeno never had a fair opportunity to talk to the sorcerer, and here is Donghyuck, specifically picked by him. It is a mystery, one of its kind, how the boy manages to insert himself in nearly every narrative that concerns him. Jeno was starting to forget about him, about his persistent existence; he had other worries, worries that were much more critical and heavy on him. The nightmares had stopped, too, washing Donghyuck's boat away from his sea.

"My friend over here is pleasantly surprised, that's all," the Bosmer explains away before Jeno can even muster a response, which would've been just as artificial.

Jeno turns to look at him, openly this time. He forces a reticently friendly face, but trusts Donghyuck to spot the desire to jump him. "That's right. I'm beyond excited."

(...)

He seizes Donghyuck's arm as soon as the doors to the office shut behind them; he lets go just as fast after the boy eyes the hand keeping him in place. Suddenly he isn't sure how he wants this interrogation to start.

"Why are you doing this? To be annoying?" is what he settles for. Hushed, but still hostile. Part of him thinks Donghyuck is, as Dejun said, trying to get back for the half-breed comment.

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Don't play dumb with me. _This_. Aiming for the representative spot and all. A Bosmer has no business meddling in important matters."

Donghyuck presents him with the hardest glare he’s seen from him so far. It surprises him; as ridiculous at it sounds, he's not used to his _enemy_ showing visibly sharp edges. "You're kidding, right? Don’t flatter yourself — I don't have to try that hard to annoy you. Being one will look good on my resume when the committee of Azura reviews my performance. Fucking _Altmers."_

The answer he feared the most. But Jeno's not done yet, even if Donghyuck seems to have buried this conversation and promptly fled the funeral: he cussed him out, turned his back on him and is now heading for downstairs.

"Why did the Arch-Mage pick you, tell me." He questions, chasing right after. But it's not a question; it's a demand that failed to escape in a whisper and is dangerously bouncing within the narrow space of the staircase. "Did you make him shoot an arrow and miss?"

"Ha! That's funny, but I wouldn't make Aren do that."

"A—" Just repeating it feels disrespectful, so Jeno bites down on his tongue before he can echo it. Donghyuck's fast as he descents down – _too_ fast – but he's, thankfully, forced to stop rushing as one of the scholars that reside in the tower cut right in front of him. Jeno catches up and takes the opportunity to angrily whisper above his ear. Properly this time. "You can't use his first name. Who do you think you are?”

They wait as the scholar slips past them to climb the stairs.

"Whatever. He likes me.”

And just like that he flees again. Jeno's not chasing him, not anymore, but is compelled to trail after him: they're both returning to their tower. Freshly fallen snow covers the courtyard – the layer seems to grow thicker and thicker each time it falls – and it squeaks under his feet with every annoyance fuelled step. His eyes are fixated on Donghyuck's withdrawing back; it's intense, the way he's staring, and there's no guarantee the channeled energy won't open up a sinkhole under the Bosmer's feet and swallow him whole. He'd celebrate that, actually.

Donghyuck is abrupt as he halts and whips around to meet that intense gaze of his. Jeno slows down, unsure of what to expect from this sudden display of determination or antagonism – he can't tell yet.

"I'll let you know you're the one who's meddling in something you're not supposed to. I was told me and Ravaena were meant to depart together. Then suddenly they switch her out, only for you to fill that spot. Why's that, I wonder? Does your girlfriend know you're replacing her?"

There's no one else around them; fate must've pitied him enough to gift him with this thin sliver of luck. His breathing is slightly raised due to the previous attempt to capture Donghyuck, and his hot breaths leave his chest in little clouds of condensation.

"She's not my girlfriend," he answers, subdued. The vehemence from before is gone.

Donghyuck seems to be waiting for something, for a suitable response or a blown out of proportion reaction, but neither come his way. "So she doesn't know. She doesn't know that she was the initial pick, either, huh?"

Silence. A beautiful serene noise. Donghyuck nods, doesn't add anything that could cease its violins.

Jeno doesn't leave his spot until the Bosmer vanishes out of sight, inside the Hall of Attainment, taking the remnants of his anger with him.

* * *

Despite all the angst it has brought, the day of departure approaches in big strides and unforgivingly throws him out of his comfortable bed, at an hour that's too early even for the sun to wake. It's the Master Wizard that bangs on his door, stripping him of his dream. Jeno hears her voice, but not her words.

He spends another ten minutes lying inert under the sheets, still processing the fact he's awake and mustn't succumb back to slumber. It's so tempting; even if he didn't show up, in the dream city of every Imperial Donghyuck would successfully perform the duty of a promising student without him, and he would wind up never having cheated Ravaena out of her rightful position. Under the disorientating and ever so powerful spell of drowsiness, Jeno deems the outcome to be almost ideal.

But then he's pushing up, a series of dissatisfied groans following right behind, and there's nothing more he wants in this moment than to invade the train that's supposed to take him to said city. It needs to finally end, this whole thing. In Cyrodii, he'll find that the College of Whispers, the supposed threat, is but a petty swindle with no real harm to his mother's party, a scheme forged by a group of Imperials to suck the pockets of those intrigued by Necromancy dry. The guilt will stop eating at him, and the peace of his mind will be restored.

(...)

It'd seem the Imperials hosting the convention didn't hesitate spending their shiny coins to attach and plant the guests in one of the most ornate train carriages Jeno has ever set foot on; the parade of resources makes him roll his eyes, while simultaneously inures him to the idea of how long this trip will take.

The carriage is tripartite, separated by partitions: the biggest portion in front is prearranged for the Arch-Mage and a few other masters from the College, then there's the passage, and finally the space Jeno was assigned. Even when it's half the size of the one in the front, the furniture and the details retain the wow factor. Two cushioned, carmine benches outline the opposing sides of the carriage, medium in length so as not to block the door. On his left there stands a little round table, varnished wood that shines like bronze matching the rim of the interior. A beautiful bouquet of flowers he can't identify is placed on top.

Altmeri architecture and design differ in many ways: it's just as posh, but not boastful. Clean and harmonic compositions, tall and airy spaces, and consistently bright, reflective surfaces. So to Jeno the swirl of warm colors and distinct patterns is just as foreign as it is hypnotic. There's a fair chance the latter is due to the fragrance of the flowers, however, and the slight tease of sleep deprivation.

But most importantly it feels like the Master Wizard, who stayed behind to be in charge of the College, this morning plucked him unaware from the claws of the past. There are no rails in Winterhold; there are no signs of invasive Imperialism in the magical land stuck in time. Jeno's wearing his usual Altmeri clothes that are as minimalist and imposing as their architecture is: sleeveless topcoat with distinctive sharp cuts over high neck underlay – white on steel blue. The switch from his mage robes only further emphasizes just how surreal the experience of studying in Winterhold really is.

Through the window in the door Jeno checks the pendulum clock that's swinging inside the passageway. They're four minutes behind schedule and still not moving. As if summoned, someone interposes by entering from outside. He watches as the boy gives a knock of notice against the other partition, crashing inside and on the opposite couch with a _bang._

"Am I very late or just late?"

Donghyuck's cheeks are rosy, frostbitten, and he lets out a tired huff as he plops his bag next to him. The train hisses loudly before pulling away, and Jeno looks at the station as it starts moving out of their sight.

"What was that one saying?" he asks, turning away from the window to gaze at the Bosmer instead.

Donghyuck's still heaving as he frowns. "What saying?"

"That one about punctuality."

"Oh, fuck off. You can't teach a bladder to be punctual. _You_ had no excuse."

Earlier, just as they finished storing their luggage into the neighbor carriage and were about to hop inside their own, Donghyuck suddenly decided he was in dire need to use the restroom and there was no way he could've waited till their first stop. He's now undoing the strings of his boots, his fingers tripping over one another in a hurried attempt.

"Make sure you watch your profanity when we're there. You're from a good family, aren't you?" Jeno reminds the struggling Bosmer.

The boy's fingers freeze for a second.

"Now I'll definitely make sure to impress them with my cussing."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

Donghyuck lies down and huddles up on his seat, fitting all of himself on top, the bag serving as a pillow. Jeno glares daggers at the Bosmer's back that faces him, and feels his eye twitch. Insufferable, that's what he is.

Tamriel is still swallowed by the dark of early morning, and Jeno rests his head against the window. It's cold, wet and it rattles along with the train, sending the waves of movement right to his skull. It's the most comfortable position that includes both watching the passing scenery and relaxing his body, so he does his best to endure it for a good five minutes. Then he realizes he can just slip a cushion in between.

He's sleepy, but he doesn't want to sleep. His eyes dart to Donghyuck. The boy seems to have already entered the land of dreams. Watching him detracts Jeno's attention from the window completely, and he recalls yesterday's evening and its events.

Ravaena visited his sleeping quarters and helped him pack for the trip. Not that he needed help, she had simply insisted.

"I'm really happy for you. This is a great opportunity," she congratulated and Jeno could feel her warmth was true. It wrapped him in a cordial embrace. It saddened him.

"I wish you could come with me."

She smiled at his honesty as her arm bumped into him playfully, as if to ease the burden it held. "I wish I could, but unfortunately there can only be one representative."

"That's not true. Donghyuck's coming, too."

Her reaction was unpredictably unceremonious: it had morphed into something sullen for a moment too short for consideration. "That's unsurprising. I'm guessing the Arch-Mage chose him."

"How do you know?"

"Well, the Bosmer personally trains under him. He was picked at the beginning of this month."

It's common for the Arch-Mage to choose two experienced, advanced in their training apprentices or green adepts to follow him around and help with research. A novice? Not so much. It would've surprised Jeno even if it was Ravaena who'd been picked. It didn't make sense.

"What the Arch-Mage is thinking is surely a mystery," she voices her own disbelief that is not at all far off from his. "To send a half-breed to Cyrodiil when more than half of the College's sponsors are Altmers. A negative reaction is assured."

She was absolutely entitled to that opinion, after all, not even that deep within he himself was bearing similar doubts. But for a moment the derogatory word, the _name_ she had called Donghyuck distracted from what those doubts comprised. It was like he had traveled back to when he first spluttered what felt like an empty, negligible term that could be tossed around without consequence. It was exactly that in the Summerset isles. To Jeno, however, it was no longer just a careless murmur of malice. It was quiet anticipation of a storm of uncontrollable wrath and unearthed corpses from the graveyard of memories, of beautiful flashing colors, blues and purples, keen teeth aiming to sink into soft flesh. _Half-breed_ no longer signified what it once did. Curious eyes and a sharp tongue, the beginning and end of each nightmare.

Jeno absentmindedly watches as Donghyuck, curled up and uncharacteristically peaceful, heaves lightly with every breath. His brain goes against his wishes and lulls him to sleep, promising a ride to the land the boy is currently wandering.

(...)

Something's repeatedly poking at his knee. Jeno blinks the sleep away, but not the crankiness. Once his vision isn't blurry anymore, he glares at Donghyuck who's currently bumping his foot against his leg. The boots are back on his feet and he seems to have been awake for some time now.

"Watch the drool," he warns.

The warning reaches his brain in the form of a knot of pure gibberish, but then it unravels and he slaps his palm onto his mouth to roughly wipe his drooling saliva. Jeno straightens into a proper sitting position and clears his throat: he feels disrespected, embarrassed and slightly grateful for it didn't land on his garb. Daylight has already breached the skyline, but from the looks of it they're still passing the province of Skyrim.

Jeno can't really tell whether Donghyuck's humoring himself or not – the lower half of his face is covered by a book he's holding in front of him – but amusement can be traced in his stare. He then diverts his eyes to the book, and Jeno naturally drops his as well. The cover. Engraved red leather and golden accents.

"Where did you get that?" he asks, his tone moderately accusing.

"The Arcanaeum. I borrowed it before the trip, since you never let me finish it."

"You were the one who told me to–"

"Quiet." Donghyuck shushes. "I'm trying to read here."

Jeno reverts his attention to the window before he can _accidentally_ rip the book out of the other's possession and light it on fire. They're passing through a forest – nothing exciting, nothing eye-catching, nothing to leave an imprint in his mind and entertain him. Once he feels his annoyance slacken, he risks a glance the Bosmer's way. The book he's reading is a classic in the Summerset. A story of strong Altmeri love, of won battles, of devastating sacrifices; Jeno has never read a page of it, was never interested beyond the implication that classics beget culture – and a cultured man he is – yet he's familiar.

Donghyuck looks up for a moment. Their eyes meet.

"I picture the main character to look like you," the boy confesses.

"And why's that?"

"You're both Altmers. You're both arrogant assholes," he explains with a shrug.

Jeno sighs. "Why did I ask."

Since Donghyuck has switched positions, Jeno can now see the corners of his mouth lifting up, but the smile is reluctant and doesn't seem like it's meant to be seen by him. They stay quiet for some time, the only noise filler being the constant grinding of the train wheels.

"What's an _arrock?"_ Donghyuck asks after shuffling into a different position, breaking the silence.

"Arrock is someone who's... pretentious, you could say. It's a strong word in the Isles."

Not even ten minutes later, another inquiry flies his way: "What's a _herd?"_

_"_ Herd? Read the sentence.”

They spend a fair portion of the ride just like this — Donghyuck asking questions about the unusual to other races lexicon, mentioned locations that were based on real ones in the Isles, and Jeno answering those questions in a manner that lacks enthusiasm or was supposed to lack it (he doesn’t really mind, there is nothing better to do anyways). At some point he has even accepted that he is, somewhat, reminiscent of the main character and lets Donghyuck refer to him as _him._

“ _Oh my god_ , I can’t believe you just did that,” the Bosmer gasps as he bugs out and abandons the book for a second.

“What? What did I do?”

“I can’t tell you. You’ll be embarrassed.”

“Hit me.”

But Donghyuck shakes his head and immerses himself back inside the fictional world, leaving Jeno to wonder what could’ve been so striking that his alternative self did. Later comes a time where he starts fidgeting more than normal, as though excited, and all Jeno can think about it is how motion sickness isn't turning the Bosmer's stomach. Just imagining reading in a moving carriage makes Jeno nauseous. He’s also slightly curious what spurred the excitement.

“So what’s... happening. In the story,” he tries to mask the curiosity.

“You’re fighting your sworn enemy. Just finished, I mean. It was a big face-off. The biggest yet.”

“I see. Did I win?”

Above the upper edge of the book, Jeno can see Donghyuck zeroing in on him.

“Yes, but no,” he answers, voice edging on cautiousness.

Jeno quirks a brow. “So which is it? Did I win or did I not?”

“Technically — you did. But I personally don’t count it as a win.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

Then there’s a section of the book Donghyuck flips through with a bored expression; some pages he skips altogether.

“You’re not going to read that?” Jeno pries. Donghyuck seemed pretty invested up until now.

“No. It’s the romance,” he responds offhandedly.

The couple in this book — their sacrificial love — is the pinnacle of the story; little Altmeri girls and little Altmeri boys are often nicknamed after their names as they experience the fluttering of a first crush, and all young ladies longingly sigh and yearn for such connection to enter their lives, while young men aspire to become as dignified as the protagonist is. _But he’s an asshole, according to Donghyuck._

“Isn’t that supposed to be the best part?”

Donghyuck closes the book with both hands, the action creating a gust of air that charges at him and ruffles the front strands of his copper curls. He puts it aside on the little table.

“It’s so painfully predictable who he’ll choose.”

Jeno takes in the critique and tries to assess it, flipping it on one side, then the other. Still, he’s not exactly sure he understands. “What do you mean by that? There’s only one option to pick from and that is his lover.” 

“Well, I liked him with Enrmon more.”

Jeno’s eyebrows first rise up, then drop down when he attaches the name to the vague contours of a character Donghyuck has drawn for him. “Isn’t that his enemy? That’s ridiculous. Would you pursue someone you hate?”

Donghyuck’s quiet as he blinks at the view outside. They’re in the outskirts of Falkreath, one of the major cities in Skyrim, and it lies in the southwest near the borders of Cyrodiil. Once having been part of the Empire, it harbors Imperialism influenced buildings — it’s a seamless transition between the two provinces.

“Yes. In fact, I’d _only_ pursue someone I hate,” he finally mutters.

“Maybe you would, but I’m not– _he’s_ not queer like you.”

“Shame,” Donghyuck shoots him a sharp look that penetrates through the more comfortable atmosphere that’s been building up, pops the bubble of faux friendliness with utmost ease. The sharp edges remind him of the glare he was given back in the College, outside of the Master Wizard’s office, but now there’s the shine of disappointment adoring it. “Now, as I said, the ending’s boring and predictable. All that unresolved tension will go to waste.”

Deeper lines settle on Jeno’s forehead. “...Yeah.” Are they still talking about the book?

The rest of the trip is wordless save for occasional small talk sparked by Donghyuck. More than corresponsive conversation, it's just him noting the sightings outside or making small complaints about how sitting is hard.

* * *

The Imperial City is as grand and _Imperial_ as he remembers it be; he had once visited the capital with his mother during one of her work related trips. At the very center the White-Gold Tower still pierces the sky, the pallor of it that he's used to seeing in Winterhold following them all the way here. The city itself is divided into ten walled districts, the Imperial District located around the tower itself, nine others grouping around it.

What's most distinctive about the capital is that it's located on top of a small island, and it stretches its four limb-like bridges to each cardinal direction that grapple into the mainland like hooks.

They're currently sitting in a carriage that's taking them away from the station and towards Talos Plaza – an exclusive residential district and the location of the main gateway to the city that's economically supported by the Tiber Septim Hotel. The hotel regularly used by the nobility of Tamriel, the destination of their ride. To his right Jeno can see the elven gardens they're passing; aside from prevailing trimmed hedges, they're withered now, but a fleeting memory of rich summer greenery pays a shy visit. In this district there also stand the statues of the Nine Divines, their colossal heights and potent stares making them look like the real thing locked in stone, and Donghyuck leans in to get a better view.

He does the same for the ancient temples, the market district, and arenas – the site of gladiator combat no longer in action. Unfortunately, they don't cross paths with the Imperial Palace, but Jeno recalls it being quite marvelous.

After settling inside their assigned rooms – they didn't cram Donghyuck and him into one and for that Jeno sighed a whisper of gratitude to their Altmeri god Marcus – they were setting forth again, but this time to the heart of the convention: the shut down facility of the Arcane University.

On their way there, inside the moving carriage, Donghyuck's quiet, expressionless as he finds something on the ground to stare at. He's decked out in a set of new clothes – a corset vest of dark browns, dark reds, white puffy sleeves – and this rather posh look contrasts with how Jeno is used to seeing him at the College. It's simplistic, earthy, exactly how he had envisioned high fashion of the Bosmer to appear, but the slight influence of Imperialistic trends is indisputable; could it be that Donghyuck lives close to the border with the Empire?

The boy flutters his eyes shut for a moment, his bare, gloveless hand coming up to rub at his brow bone. A fine gold cuff bangle circles his wrist and it connects to a ring on his middle finger with a delicate chain. The evening is here, no longer lurking around the corner, the last rays of sun evoking a glint of metallic honey from the jewelry adoring his patchy skin. Jeno doesn't care that he's staring unapologetically at the way the two colors clash around Donghyuck's fingers, human albino versus elven bronze, like brazen proof of two worlds colliding and forming one that's currently rumbling deep within in resistance.

But then their carriage comes to a stop, and so does the hardness, the inner struggle on Donghyuck's features. The boy unhurriedly pulls on the furs thrown over his lap – he was handed them at the hotel – and checks the University now present behind the window with a resolute look in his eyes; the inquisitive glint from when they first arrived in the city is nowhere to be seen, but there's the high morale compensating its demise.

That's right. He must know he's an unwelcome guest.

* * *

They trailed right after the Arch-Mage Aren into the spacious hall, and stayed by his side as he first pleased the probing eyes and sweet-tongued greetings of the hosts and other esteemed guests; two quiet accessories, just as the Master Wizard had said they'd be.

Jeno maintains a strict posture as he, too, welcomes every contributor that approaches them and vice versa, but keeps his stare friendly and devoid of any attitude; there are Altmeri faces he recognizes or is aware he should recognize, and the last thing he wants is to come off as rude or not sociable. On his left the Arch-Mage is currently entertaining some important Imperial with an aristocratic background – the man has managed to smoothly insert a little fun fact about himself between the discussed matters, said fact being he resides in the wealthy Talos Plaza district, almost unnoticeably so for it took Jeno a second to catch the made brag – but he's afraid he missed the man's name, was it mentioned. Jeno was smuggling quick glances towards the boy's direction, who was glued to the Arch-Mage's opposite shoulder. To be more exact, he was distracted by how disinterested Donghyuck seemed behind a clumsily molded mask of required politeness. 

It's not like Jeno particularly cares about most of these people, but at least he's trying. Another Imperial horns in on their conversation, and he grasps the cue to fade away into the background as he rescues Donghyuck along the way.

"You could've at least smiled," he tells him while looking straight ahead; it's not gossip, and it shouldn't look like it from the outside. "These men are the reason our College is still running."

"I'm not going to act like I care about some old man's drivel," Donghyuck retorts. They approach the table dotted with various glass bottles of liquor – a pit stop for those who seek to regain their breath. "Ah, yes, please tell me all about the land you own in the area and the ties you have with the Elder Council. Why don't you disclose all the noble places you've stuck your dick in while you're at it? I then wouldn't have to die from holding in a yawn at least."

Jeno almost chokes. Thankfully there's no one close enough to eavesdrop. "You're ridiculous."

"Someone has to be I'm afraid." The Bosmer's hand floats over the bottles indecisively. His fingers hop from one cap to another, writhing like he's in the process of accumulating a spell.

"You shouldn't drink yet. Not before the banquet," Jeno instructs, and Donghyuck looks over his shoulder at the long table enveloped in white cloth in the middle of the hall. It's still naked, none of the chairs are taken. The greeting phase is slowly coming to a close as the little groups of the guests seem to draw closer and closer to the center, no longer hanging by the tall gridded windows or around the creamy columns.

"If you actually want me to pretend I care, you need to get me tipsy first," Donghyuck decides on one of the bottles with finality, but looks up at Jeno when his hand tries to stop his. "Half a cup,” he insists.

The Altmer doesn't want to grant Donghyuck his trust, but a guest approaches him and he's forced to let his guard down. It's another Altmer, and the elf's smile forecasts bad news. Jeno knows he’s supposed to recognize him on the spot; the man’s face is awfully familiar.

"Joroth Lorathael! What a pleasant surprise, oh my!" the man keeps his arms behind his back as he gives his all with the overly excited grin. Long hair tamed in a low ponytail, a silver belt fastened around the waist, the same glint of silver reflecting off of the beads in two strands left untied. An exemplary fellow from the main isle Summerset, there's no doubt in that.

"Likewise. I did not expect to see you here... sir. Had I known you were in Cyrodiil, I would've approached you first."

The unmistakable sound of liquor glugging into a goblet fills the partially awkward pause. Both Altmers twist their heads to stare at Donghyuck, slowly like their necks are rusted gears unable to turn without friction. The goblet is filled to the brim. _Half a cup, was it?_

"I recently had the pleasure of meeting your mother in the capital. It was a total coincidence that she had decided to visit the headquarters of our ministry while I was present."

Ah, that’s right. Molindil Silinious, the Minister of Education. The motives behind his appearance are suddenly quite clear. They continue with somewhat enjoyable chit-chat; _how’s my mother doing, what’s the present state of Summerset, and how are you, dear sir, holding up?_ The man inquires about Jeno’s performance at the College in return.

“Have you perhaps bumped into anyone from the College of Whispers?” Jeno attempts to ask in an inconspicuous way.

The High Elf’s complexion pales for a second and he glances the other way before answering. “I have. It’s these two gentlemen standing over there,” he, just as inconspicuously, tilts his head in the direction of a pair of Imperials. “I had no clue young master would be interested in that College’s enterprises.”

Jeno spares a polite smile. “I’m as inquisitive as a student can be. The letters made it sound very opportune.”

“Of course. It’s nice to see young Altmers preserve the appetite for knowledge their parents passed onto them. I must excuse myself for now, but I’ll wish on us meeting in the future.” The man inclines his head slightly and takes off, but not before coarsely raking his eyes over Donghyuck, providing one of the dirtiest looks Jeno has ever seen.

“ _Arrock_ ,” Donghyuck says against the goblet. It’s loud enough to tug on the receding elf’s pointy ears. Jeno snaps his head to the side as he hides the snort that almost escaped him - it's the word he has taught Donghyuck himself and hearing it surprised him - but he’s not proud of that reaction and is quick to conceal it by clearing his throat.

“You are very lucky he didn’t hear that,” he tells Donghyuck.

“ _He’s_ lucky I didn’t say it to his face. I already know if given the chance, he’d call me a _half-breed_ in a heartbeat. He’s got the face.”

Jeno’s eyes dart to Donghyuck’s.

“The face?”

“Yes, he’s got your typical Altmeri face that scrunches up at the sight of anything it considers pathetic.”

“And what kind of features you deem make up such face?”

Donghyuck drinks out of his goblet quietly as he scratches the surface of Jeno’s skin with telling eyes; his forehead, his jaw, his lips. Say it. _Say it, I dare you._

But the boy downs his alcohol in a swift final motion and props the emptied goblet on the table with a satisfied sigh. “Forget it.”

They share a moment of quiet observation. The two Imperials that the Minister pointed to attract Jeno’s attention like a magnet; he must come up with a plan to engage them in a conversation. Yet, it’d be safer to ask around for information — while he’s here performing the duty of a simple College student, if asked, he wouldn’t dare lie about his last name. And the name of Lorathaels should be known to them by now.

His plotting is interrupted by soft, reoccurring hics. _Hic, hic, hic._ Donghyuck covers his treacherous mouth, but his quivering shoulders give it away anyway. Karma, Jeno thinks. Shouldn’t have drunk. Shouldn’t have doubled the amount when he wasn’t looking.

“Why did that Altmer call you Joroth?” the boy forces out, anticipating another hiccup.

“It’s my Altmeri name.”

“You have two names? Well, that sounds very—“ _Hic.“_ Very unnecessary and excessive.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything to that.

“He looked like someone important,” Donghyuck pursues with the topic of that man.

"He is. He's the Minister of Education in the Isles."

"And he knows you?"

“It'd be more appropriate to say he knows my mother. Most Altmers here do."

"Why? Is she famous or something?"

"Rather than famous she is _known_ among a few groups. She’s the kinlady of Auridon, therefore she’s a member of the Thalmor, in other words the governing council of the Altmeri Dominion. She’s also currently the Chancellor of foreign affairs, but because our isle already puts enough on her shoulders, her position is often expressed through the subordinate Minister.” The subordinate Minister being Mr. Grayore, Ravaena’s father, but Jeno doesn’t want to get _that_ specific. He detaches his eyes from the representatives of the other College and looks at Donghyuck upon not receiving a response. The Bosmer looks like Jeno just sabotaged the cogwheels of his brain by thrusting a cane in between.

“Renjun mentioned something about politics, but I didn’t expect it to be _that_ intense. Does this mean I could actually get in trouble if I wronged you?"

“Most definitely. But the one executing you would be me, not my mother."

The booming voice of the host invites for a collective meal.

"I'll be looking forward to that, then," Donghyuck says as he leaves Jeno behind to follow the invitation like a siren song. The pledge of war tastes sour on the Altmer's tongue. So he's planning on _wronging_ him, whatever that would mean.

Jeno shadows Donghyuck's steps as he nears the table himself. The boy is laying a trail of confidence in his saunter, a trail of poise he had built for himself back in their carriage. Jeno can't exactly determine whether or not there's hardship in entering a space that is unsupportive of you, because Donghyuck made it look so easy. He made it look so simple and trivial when he rebounded after the man looked at him like he was but rubbish. It's as if he had snapped his fingers and bent the laws of dynamics like a sorcerer way too powerful to be kept alive. Jeno has seen him flick the switch twice now. The first time was at the training grounds, when instead of being the vulnerable one, he had stared at Jeno like he knew things about him he himself didn't know.

But what if something unexpected, something Donghyuck had no control over took place? How would he react then? Jaemin told him not to underestimate him, when in reality Donghyuck is the one underestimating Jeno. _Let's see who wrongs who first_. _Let's see just how fast you really are at snapping your fingers, Donghyuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's so much donghyuck in this chapter. i guess the want to write him accumulated over all the exposition i did for other characters. alternative title of this chapter: me pretending i know politics for 7k words straight


	6. Weighing So Heavy on Your Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s my christmas gift for you.
> 
> i can’t believe i’m already 50k in, it’s absolutely surreal, especially when this fic was but a happy accident. 
> 
> i can’t estimate how long it’ll be since i write and add scenes as i go, but judging by the preplanned ideas 100k is assured. 
> 
> enjoy :}

> _ Redguards are the most naturally talented warriors in Tameriel. The dark-skinned, wiry-haired people of Hammerfell seem born to battle, though their pride and fierce independence of spirit makes them more suitable as scouts or skirmishers, or as free-ranging heroes and adventurers, than as rank-and-file soldiers._

After a clink of tableware against glass gathers the guests' attention, the Imperial standing at the head of the table is giving an elaborate speech, a thorough thanks to everyone who had made an effort to put in an appearance to the city's extravagant convention. The fantastic orator is none other than a member of the central government of the Empire: the Elder Council. Jeno has yet to see a man of his rank or remotely subordinate to it give a fabricated heartfelt speech inside the dining hall of his mother's manor in Auridon. He'd like to make it happen one day.

With the ending note of the Imperial's deliverance, the guests sink down into their chairs accordingly. There's no apparent grouping in where they're seated; it's quite random, actually. Jeno was fortunate enough to secure a seat next to the Arch-Mage – now's the perfect chance to spark a conversation – but the representatives of the College of Whispers are too far for him to _inadvertently_ overhear their spoken matters, turning him unlucky in that regard.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Joroth?" a voice, modulated and deep, asks him.

It belongs to Savos Aren. The Arch-Mage. It's the kind of voice that reassures, that smothers any hesitancy or demurral, and even if tonight was the worst experience he's had the pleasure of undergoing, the question would've made him reconsider.

"I am. I'm very grateful for I was chosen."

The man – the elf – listens with a tender smile and kind eyes like he's absorbed. Like he's his friend. The Arch-Mage is a Dunmer, a Dark Elf, and yet his disposition is so out of character for his race, not to mention his rank. He's in every way enabled to treat others as lesser, but it'd seem his eminence in leadership was built on different footing. Jeno can't resist the charm and he's quickly swept under the impression that their Arch-Mage is a reliable presence. He can now understand everyone's shared but silent admiration for him at the College.

"I was planning on taking you here next year. It might not seem like it, but I've been tracking your progress, and I must say you're an exceptionally promising mage. Lots of potential. Then again, can't expect anything less from Lorathaels," he praises.

Jeno tries not to let his natural reserve melt at the compliment and welcomes it with polite modesty. Inside, there's a conflict: the words versus the one who has uttered them, which holds more importance? He's been meaning to have this scholar to mentor interaction, but the buzzword _potential_ is slightly worrisome. In this moment in time, is he still not enough?

"What made you change your mind, may I ask?" Jeno asks, and he's not sure why. He knows the answer.

"There was a slight change of plans. And... your name happened to be brought up in further discussions."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it was master Faralda who recommended me," he tries to market it as a bare lucky guess.

This seems to divert the mage. "Why, yes. She did recommend you, too, but I were going to mention Donghyuck first."

Jeno's eyebrows draw together. "Donghyuck?"

They put their casual conversation on short pause and focus on the chattering guests. On their front left, planted between two Imperials there sits Donghyuck, who's, judging by the gold entangled hand covering the creases of a grin, is extremely entertained. The Imperial entertaining him, believe it or not, is the same _old man_ that Jeno had previously rescued him from.

"I was mulling over this matter, whether or not I should abandon my plans to save your spot for another time, but Donghyuck himself vouched for you. I had no reason to decline you after that."

_Oh_ , so he vouched for him. Yet, before the departure, he was acting shocked and displeased with the fact they had switched Ravaena out. Is there actually any forethought to how Donghyuck decides to feel about him, or has Jeno been giving him too much credit this entire time?

"Is that so? I must thank him, then."

"You must," the Arch-Mage's agreement is calm and smiley. “Come to think of it, your sister hasn’t shown up yet.”

“My sister? Agnae? She’s here?”

“You didn’t know? Agnae was in Hammerfell for a short while, and earlier this week informed me of her decision to stop by when returning to Morrowind.”

Of course he didn’t know. Siblings, that’s what they are, but the connection that usually entails isn’t quite there. Often times Johnny is the link between them, the messenger, and without him there’s no one to report on her whereabouts or current situation. When they were younger, Jeno had silly thoughts that his elder sister wasn’t fond of him, but he’s come to learn the truth is different — they’re different, _too_ different, both in age and character, and different is something Johnny specialises in working around, not Jeno. The Arch-Mage’s attention sways the other way, towards the lad to his right that seems to be eagerly demanding it. Jeno's, consequently, wants to sway elsewhere too, but he's not sure of where it should land. He drops his eyes to the garnished roasted fish sleeping untouched on his plate.

It's decent, he concludes after giving it a taste, but he'd give away his silver brooch to pay the cooks to prepare something more palatable, something homey, something that tastes like Summerset. He's in the middle of taking another bite, when the ringing sound of intrusive laughter inundates the hall.

All eyes collectively fly to Donghyuck. The boy surveys the confused stares, apologetic and wide-eyed, but the mirth hasn't yet withdrawn from his liquor licked lips and Jeno is almost sure everyone's curiosity did nothing but appease him. The Imperial, who must've been the cause of this performance, only huffs a series of gusty laughs, clearly satisfied with his humor evoking such a strong reaction.

After a terribly slow hour of trying different dishes just to find they don't gratify the itch, some – arguably most – Imperials rise from their seats to partake in a common session of smoking their short tobacco sticks. In the Isles, Jeno has witnessed the guest Imperials drawing on their 'cigars', and he had always wondered what they were until he was offered one. He had refused the generous offer, for elves didn't play with most Men contrived substances, especially tobacco.

They’re polite enough to take this outside the room for all the elves present there, and that Jeno silently appreciates. To his surprise, Donghyuck rises to join the exiting row of Imperials. The two representatives he’s kept an eye on are no exception.

Irritation starts bubbling within him. Will he really have no chance to learn more about the institution’s endeavors tonight?

The Imperials who have fled start piling up outside, in front of the tall windows, in the blackening blue of this eventful evening. The light the hall emits illuminates their dark figures, but the ones standing further burn little holes in the blanket of the night with the tips of their cigars.

It doesn’t take long for Jeno to locate Donghyuck; the Bosmer is standing close to one of the windows, conversing with a few Imperials surrounding him. The furs are back on him, draped over his lithe form, and he clutches onto them from inside using one of his hands while a stick of tobacco burns in the other. He’s smiling at the men, but it looks deadly, it reeks of a trap. The Imperial that made Donghyuck laugh earlier is suddenly wrapping an arm around the boy’s waist, and even from here, behind the window, inside the warm hall, Jeno feels the cold sensation of a shiver course through his body. He feels uncomfortable.

Why is Donghyuck not moving away? Why is he allowing the Imperial, the old man as he named him himself, touch him? Even now, Donghyuck’s expression could pass as sort of playful, sort of coquettish.

Someone places an unassuming hand on Jeno’s shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. Upon turning around, the familiar face of his sister greets him.

“And why are you brooding here alone?” she speaks to him.

He quickly scrambles to his feet to show some propriety before his eldest sibling. Agnae is taller than him, almost as tall as Johnny, and her eyes are glazed over with nonchalance, always have been. She regards the muse of his concern. “A Bosmer?”

Before he can greet her, or inquiry about her plans, he’s forced to revert his attention back to Donghyuck.

“Precisely. He’s the other representative.”

Something akin to interest crosses her stare. "It appears interesting things have been happening as soon as I set foot outside the College. But isn't that always the case?"

The humorous remark provokes a closed-lip chuckle out of Jeno. "It appears so."

There's no catching up between them, no how-have-you-been's.

"What are you doing here in Cyrodiil?" she proposes the question, one Jeno should be proposing instead. The obvious answer would be, _I'm here representing our College, of course,_ but his sister isn't blind, and she certainly isn't stupid.

"I'm here to learn more about the College of Whispers, given they've sent their representatives here as well." There is no point in lying.

"Tell me you didn't approach them head-on," her tone doesn't waver, but the words still thunder down with considerable intensity.

"I was going to. The moment hasn't presented itself yet, however.”

Agnae stares into him, a stern scolding stuck between curiosity and prudence. "You can drop that. There's nothing to do about it yet, and if there is, mother will handle it on her own. Your input might only make things worse for her, Joroth. Don't allow the name of Lorathael be inserted in the wrong conversations. If you're that curious, I can tell you what I know."

"Please," comes the eager response – the plea of an inconsiderate son. "I need to know how legitimate this affair is."

They relocate to the pit stop he and Donghyuck had previously found shelter in.

"It's not legitimate to the point of being official," she starts, "but it's legitimate enough for those partisan to enter rooms like these, as you can already see. The one orchestrating this whole thing is undeniably close to the Elder Council, if not a direct member of it."

“Could it be tonight’s host?”

“I doubt it. I doubt the man will allow himself be known this easily.”

This doesn’t sound hopeful, at all. The more his sister introduces, the more ominous this institution appears to his imagination.

"And what if, let's say, someone influential from the Isles got involved?” Jeno asks about the pressing issue.

"Mr. Grayore? Is that why you're worried?" she unravels without much difficulty. It's that's easy for her to read the situation. "I wouldn't be surprised, if he did. But he can't get involved. If he gets involved, whatever happens, the blame will be put on the Altmers and the opposition from the continent will be inevitable. If it's inevitable, it doesn't concern me, but even I'm not completely indifferent this time. It'd backfire for our mother the most. Everyone has been pointing fingers at her since day one; everyone's scared of bringing magic back. That's why you shouldn't act on your own accord, and you definitely shouldn't show even the slightest interest that could be held against our family."

After a harsh slap on the face like that, it'd be hard for him to confess he has already, sort of, shown interest to none other but the Minister of Education. Oh, a fool he is. An absolute fool.

The guests from outside roll in, shutting the conversation down along with the heavy doors behind them.

* * *

The chalky ceiling above mirrors the emptiness of his mind. There's nothing there: no images, no late-night visions, no louder than loud sounds, no quieter than quiet whispers. There was a chaos an hour ago, a tornado of sorts, and he flogged a dead horse until there was no energy to continue on wasting it. His head is thrown back on the backrest of the armchair, arms tossed at the sides, legs spread wide and feet rooted into the expensive carpet. Nothing moves, nothing speaks, nothing matters.

The lobby of their compartment is deserted; everyone's asleep. If only the premises were haunted and awarded him the company of ancient Imperial spirits. Maybe the emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh would visit him then, and cackle at how miserable he looks right now. The fire crackles lowly in the cradle of the fireplace, seemingly struggling to devour retaliating wood. That's the first noise that got to him in the span of five minutes, but little does he know it won't be the last.

Someone bursts through the door leading downstairs, and had Jeno not been this numb, he would've passed away right here in this chair from a heart attack. _Ah, how could have he forgotten._ Not everyone is asleep. Now that he was rudely reminded he himself is indeed alive, he can say he’s not asleep, for starters. Donghyuck, who never returned to the University's hall, isn't either. The Bosmer wasn't the only one who had unmannerly fled the scene; the old man was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn't hard to connect the two dots.

Donghyuck's now panting frantically, his back pressed against the door as he unties his shoes and tosses them aside. _Fast, fast, fast,_ his impatient fingers seem to scream as he rids himself of the furs, which instantly wind up on the wooden planks of the floor. It looks like he's been running – no, he was _definitely_ running up the stairs two steps at a time, but even prior to that. His appearance is nothing short of a train wreck; disheveled hair, fire underneath his skin tinting it red, two lively eyes staring at a lifeless Jeno.

The boy crashes into the other empty armchair, and the peace returns along with the ghosts that were never there. Then there’s laughter, youthful laugher, wicked and innocent, all at the same time. Jeno can’t fish out even a string of energy to ask, but that doesn’t matter because Donghyuck is already explaining it to him.

“God, I bet he’s fuming right now. I bet he’s pulling on his greying hair in anger,” he slurs in between laughter.

“Who is?” Jeno asks, but it comes out extremely monotone. He’s back to gazing at the ceiling like it's the most interesting plain ceiling he's ever lied his eyes upon.

“That geezer.”

“The one from Talos Plaza?”

“The same one.”

“Mm.”

He’s too out of it to investigate further. The opportune silence that follows his detached hum allows him to draw his eyelids; he wouldn’t mind falling asleep like this, he wouldn’t mind it at all.

Jeno feels the plush armrest of his seat sink in and he peels his eyes open with newfound difficulty. Donghyuck is half draped on top, half standing, his arm slung around where Jeno’s head is.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” he insists on disturbing the serene noise.

The scent of expensive Imperial liquor with a tinge of first something sweet, then something bitter swamps Jeno’s sense of smell; Donghyuck looks more intoxicated compared to when he last saw him. There’s the warmth of a rush coming off of him in waves, outdoing the fireplace in heating the air and Jeno’s blanching face. His eyes descent down, to how the Bosmer is situated above him, the state of his corset vest; the strings are loose, and it doesn’t accentuate his waist as much as it could — as much as it did back in the hall.

“...What happened? Did he tell you all the noble places he’s stuck his willy in? Or did he expand his collection tonight?”

Donghyuck’s reaction is gradual; he diverts his eyes in order look elsewhere for a moment, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he balances on the tightrope between amused and offended.

“He didn’t, but he was planning on it.”

“Doesn’t he have children? A wife?”

Donghyuck snorts. “That’s not even a question. They always have a wife that’s way out of their league and at least two kids. But rich old men in power are also enabled perverts. That makes them _usable,_ but otherwise useless.”

“You sound experienced,” Jeno comments on the omniscient tone.

“Experienced? I’d say aware is more accurate. I don’t exploit my chances as much as I could — save for this time.”

“What was different about ‘this time’?”

“You told me to try harder, didn’t you?”

Yes, he did tell Donghyuck to make an effort and seem likeable, but not to the extent of seducing one of the guests into exiting the convention altogether.

“Anyways, I told him to take me to the market district. It looked fun when we passed it. I thought I was going to puke every time he touched me, but at least he bought me this—“ Donghyuck’s eyes roam around his lap for a moment, and then he slides off the armrest and attends to his forgotten furs. He pats down for the pocket and pulls out an oblong item, then repositions himself beside Jeno. “—This. Might not look like much but it was pricey.”

It’s a slim envelope secured with thin ribbons. Donghyuck fumbles with the knot, but once he’s successful with opening the mysterious treasure, right in front of Jeno’s eyes he draws out a thick cigar. From the looks of it, the envelope contains only two of them.

“I’ve never seen an elf smoke tobacco,” he mutters.

“Because it’s a flaw fit for human races only?” Donghyuck asks, already in the know.

“Exactly.”

The boy doesn’t say anything, neither does Jeno, and he stares at the cigar caged between two dainty fingers. Donghyuck seems to be caught under the spell of ponder, and then he’s outstretching the stick to poke the air closer to Jeno. “Could you?”

“I’m not going to try that.”

“No, I mean, could you light it?”

Jeno frowns. He doesn’t have a lighter on him and he isn’t sure why Donghyuck would even assume he would. But the hopeful, shiny eyes never leave his face and it finally hits him. Donghyuck wants him to use magic. He wants him to light a cigar, which already feels inadequate enough, and he wants him to do it by breaking the law inside the borders of the Empire. He’s insane to think Jeno would consider this.

“No.”

“Come on, I won’t tell on you, obviously. It’ll be our little secret.”

“No.”

But Donghyuck isn’t backing down. Jeno assumes the novice hasn’t yet adopted the spell — that’s why he’s asking — but it’d be disastrous was he to try to utilize it while drunk. Jeno takes a labored breath, closes his eyes shut, envisions a delicate flame dancing on his fingertips. There are many ways to mess this up; he could exert too much magicka, he could go beyond the required limit, but he could also fail at igniting anything bigger than a faint glimmer. Donghyuck must understand this, too, but he leans in, his lips hugging one of the blunt ends as he entrusts the safety of his face in Jeno’s hands.

The burning sensation of magicka dampens his palm like tar. Jeno focuses more than he's ever had for this spell, puts all of his remaining energy in the process, and then he’s flicking his fingers which on abrupt command turn into a lighter made of flesh. The cigar comes alive, and so does Donghyuck, a soft sound of gratification wandering in the back of his throat.

"'Twas smooth," Donghyuck comments. "I used to be hooked on this stuff," he then reveals casually as the waves of smoke he puffs out trip one over another, his chest vibrating with light, soundless laughter as if addiction is just a pleasant memory.

"What changed?"

"Couldn't get my hands on it anymore. Didn't really want to, either," Donghyuck shrugs. "Guess it was for the better."

Jeno watches as Donghyuck cocks his head back to release a firework of smoke above them, slightly mesmerized.

"So what happened with the Imperial?" he remembers the boy never finished the story.

"Nothing too exciting. I bolted as soon as he mentioned a hotel. Waited for the right moment to dissipate into the crowd, and then I took off."

"You ran from the market district to here?"

"I did."

Jeno can't pretend the image of Donghyuck luring the Imperial outside of the convention only to fade from his sight and his grasp isn’t funny. The other guests will most likely show curiosity in where their beloved interlocutor had disappeared to, and the Altmer can only begin to imagine the stammered excuses; can’t really be frank in this case and say you intended to bed a representative half your age. He finds some reserved energy to showcase emotion and snorts; Donghyuck reflects the amusement.

Jeno doesn’t make anything of it at first, even finds it strangely relaxing, but soon their speechless eye contact strings out until it's on the verge of becoming unbearable. The wispy smoke escapes Donghyuck's parted lips, clouds his half-shut gaze; it's almost like Jeno manifested this version of him with his wishful thinking – the Bosmer bathes gloriously in the golden glow of the fireplace behind his back – but instead of a grand ancient soul he summoned something far more sinister. He can't evade the smell – it's bitter, it burns like coal against his throat, intense and effective – and he's soon inhaling the sin of Men together with Donghyuck, their breaths synced, their heartbeats following the same set of tantalizing chords. Slowly but surely he feels the boy inject his poison into him: unknown temptation, latent desire, _unresolved tension._ Aching inhibition. The demon perched on the side of the armchair entices him into his personal hell, even if just for a moment.

"Why did you put in a good word for me with the Arch-Marge?" he asks, digging his nails into the opposite from Donghyuck armrest when his hands grow a little restless.

"Did I?” arrives the faded response. “Oh, right, I did... I don't know. I don't know why I did.”

"I'm not going to thank you, if that's what you were hoping for."

The haze around them teases Jeno with an overcast grin on Donghyuck's mouth. It's languid. “I wasn’t hoping for anything." Silence, then: "Except for tonight, maybe.”

_Tonight_? The words, thick with innuendo, drip like resin from the edge of the boy’s bottom lip, and the seas that make up Jeno respond nearly immediately; they sough in want to collect the drops, materialize them, turn them into fiery amber.

"You should get off. Now." A choppy warning leaves him instead, and he can feel the shakiness in Donghyuck's next smoky breath as if he himself had exhaled it. There's no room for discussion, Jeno made sure to let that fact be known when he causes their eyes to drift apart.

Donghyuck climbs off, though reluctantly, and looks at Jeno like he just ripped that last, vital breath out of him with force. He stubs the cigar out by pressing it against one of the ceramic plates that sit prettily on top of the little table that resembles a coffer, collects his abandoned furs and heads for his room; all of which he does without the guidance of a single word.

"...Goodnight?" the received chagrin compels Jeno to say something. Donghyuck doesn't turn around, doesn't even spare a glance as he lifts his gold adored hand in the air for a farewell, then disappears behind a door, only leaving a smoking butt of the cigar along with the faintest taste of tobacco and sin on Jeno’s tongue in his lingering presence.

Just what was that, exactly? Donghyuck may have breathed some energy into him – he's a tad stupefied as if he'd just awoken from an off-color dream – and Jeno quickly discovers he'd rather have the boy stare into his soul with the usual curious, or even sharp around the edges eyes. But not these. Not these dangerous and– Jeno doesn't even want to name what he saw flashing in the depths of his stare during that dragged out moment. Or maybe it's his own reception that he doesn't want to acknowledge. 

(...)

The next morning Jeno is sitting in their train carriage, across Donghyuck who lies comotose under the boot of the early hour, and he finds himself picking up the book from where it was last neglected on the tabletop. He riffles through the pages before the train can tear off from the stop, until the scene of the renowned battle opens up before him.

* * *

Pretending the outside world and its affairs don’t exist is easy when you’re in Winterhold. Pretending you’re not an inconsiderate son and a bad friend is even easier. Wearing the mage robes, adopting spells, living in a castle that’s more of a time capsule than anything else is the root of this phenomenon.

Even now, he’s carried away by carefree chatter. Inside the daytime Frozen Hearth, sandwiched between his equally as carefree friends, there sits Jeno momentarily free of any worries.

“And if it doesn’t work?” asks Renjun.

“It’ll work. It worked for me,” answers Jaemin.

“Well, _yeah_ , because it’s you. You’re good at lying, I’m not.”

The two cousins are discussing Renjun’s dilemma: the Imperial still hasn’t mastered Fire Rune and they’re supposed to report on their progress to Destruction master Faralda tomorrow’s morning.

“I can make up an excuse for you, if you’re that scared of her,” Jaemin proposes over an eye roll.

“Don’t you even dare say anything to her. I’m serious. _Don’t._ ”

But Jaemin only smirks at his stressing cousin, and adjusts his tone to sound lighter. “Master Faralda, I’m afraid my cousin Renjun Triberia wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t perform as well as he usually does. You see, his health is not very—“

“I won’t use my physicalities as an excuse. Ever.”

“His health is not very what?” Jeno interjects.

“Doesn’t matter,” Renjun prevents further prying, then glares at the Altmer, groaning. “Why did you have to go to Cyrodiil? Now that you mastered the spell despite being given less time, no matter the excuse I will look lousy.”

“Sorry—“

“Oh, right!” Jaemin cuts Jeno's apology off before it even gets the chance to see the world, beaming at the mention, “I haven’t yet asked how you liked my home city. Did you see the palace?”

Upon finding out Jaemin’s from the Imperial City, Jeno cannot imagine a conflicting reality. It’s very suitable. “Not this time, sadly, but it’s a very prosperous city,” he says.

“I’m surprised you and Donghyuck didn’t kill each other,” Dejun chimes in from beside him. The Dark Elf hasn’t been too active in their conversations — Jeno had invited him to tag along despite his presence sticking out like a sore thumb. Jaemin didn’t seem to mind. Renjun was suspicious at first. Still is, eyeing him crookedly from time to time.

Jeno scans the atmosphere. All three students are anticipating his next words.

“It was... surprisingly peaceful between us.” _And he only tried to sabotage our image once or twice, excluding the probability of one of the sponsors he had abandoned in the market district despising our College now._

_“_ And here I was hoping to learn that one of you had pushed another out of a moving train or something,” Jaemin admits, dejected, and Renjun stabs him with but a look.

“I’m glad that _didn’t_ happen,” the Imperial hisses,” though I must say I didn’t expect peaceful.”

Jeno doesn’t elaborate on it, only agrees silently. Peaceful isn’t exactly the right word, but then again, it’s hard to reduce every intricacy of that trip to a single adjective. They did lock horns a couple of times, but it was mostly... free and easy? Odd? And smokey? A lot of it was tacit, too. So, for the lack of a better word, peaceful will do.

From an outsider’s perspective, it’s either catastrophic or peaceful between them anyway. Before, Jeno didn’t accept even this binary; it was _only_ catastrophic to him. Now it’d seem the balance scales don’t solely rely on these two antitheses. Their relationship, as Jeno has come to learn, is not as one-dimensional as he’d prefer.

A week and a half has passed since they played representatives in the Empire, and they haven’t exchanged a word since. Their eyes, however, still collide in the courtyard, but Donghyuck’s let on something different each time. They’re at times heedless, completely dismissive. Then, vexed. Sometimes those instincts of a methodical hunter seem to return and remind him that Jeno is his prey, and then he sports a very patient but _hungry_ expression, almost homogeneous to the one he wore inside the hotel. Without the screen of smoke providing protection, without the mix of smells confusing his senses in a tempting illusion, without the heat of another body up close, Jeno feels rather threatened; instead it’s clear, scentless air, and the kind of cold that chills you to the marrow. And then that piercing, implicit stare. It’s menacing. It’s alarming.

“I’ve decided to check out one of those numerous caves here in Skyrim,” Jeno says before he can think _too_ hard about it. Everyone’s undivided attention is on him again.

“Why that all of a sudden?” asks Renjun.

“I still don’t know what my plan to obtain the warrant is. I need something; even a lead would do. Ravaena suggested I should try to venture those for magical loot.”

His friend’s name arouses a renaissance of energy in Dejun. “Is she going as well?”

“...Yes?”

“I’d like to join, if possible,” the Dark Elf decides right then, right there.

After him promptly follows Jaemin. “Me too. Winterhold’s growing stale.”

Jeno needs a moment to decide what to think of their unasked involvement. One look at their glowing faces and he already knows they’re not waiting for an invitation; they’ve already made up their mind.

Renjun, however, remains perplexed. “Wait, you know there’s all kinds of creatures roaming those, right?”

The three young men share looks among each other. “Yes,” they respond in unison.

“And you still want to go?”

“Yes.”

Renjun exaggerates as he bats his eyelids.

“And that’s exactly why you’re not going,” Jaemin grins at him.

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“I wouldn’t let you go either way.”

“I’m older than you. You have no right to dictate this.”

“No, no,” Jaemin clicks his tongue as he lifts the mug of honey water closer to his mouth, “I was granted that right the moment auntie asked me to take care of you.”

“You? Taking care of me? Unheard of. As far as I’m concerned, I’m dragging your drunk self from this hellhole every other night.”

“Now, now. Don’t stretch the truth,” Jaemin nervously glances at the two elves witnessing this family banter, as if to check their reactions to what Renjun just disclosed. “It’s every other _week.”_

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t need protection, and I’m not worried. Jeno’s with us. And he gave me a sword.”

Jaemin squints at Jeno, looks him up and down, and points his index finger at him accusingly, the drink still in his possession. “Jeno, _Joroth,”_ he says,” this is the first time your existence is of inconvenience to me. And I thought you, out of all people, wouldn’t disappoint me.”

He considers apologizing for a second, but then Jaemin’s placing the mug down, sighing out an emotion Jeno cannot define.

“Fine, fine. Let’s all go.”

* * *

Jeno’s favorite horse is in its stall. A gallant white, frisky animal. An effortless jumper — the owner had told him the first time Jeno showed interest — but an opportunity to test that hasn’t revealed itself yet. He looks over at his other friends walking around the aisle of the barn; they’re, too, trying to pick a mount that'll take them to the cave. Ravaena seems to have found one already, or it’d be more appropriate to say she also has a favorite. An ebony stallion.

“I don’t know which to pick,” Renjun seeks him out. “Help me.”

“Give me a number.”

The Imperial thinks before hitting him with a _five._ Jeno counts audibly as he points at the available stalls. “That one,” his finger stops on the one farther on the opposite row.

“Better be good,” Renjun tells him and scrambles away, but Jeno trails right after; he’s, too, curious what his luck handed out for his friend.

“Well, what are you looking for in a horse, pray tell?” Jeno inquiries, playful.

“It has to have four legs and run fast.”

A dun horse. Looks standard and sturdy. “Aren’t you being a little too picky?” he jests. “This one looks decent. Take it.”

The inhabitant from the next stall approaches the gate. Jeno’s eyes fly the horse’s way: it's the same one he saw back then at the entrance of the forest. Its equine skin is broken into different patches, like a sumptuous leather map of all Tamrielic provinces, and Jeno can't stop his unfurling hand reaching for the side of its head. He reads its body language for an affirmative answer, and the animal gives him one: it lowers its head, moves towards him.

"Looks like you've made a friend," a bearded Nord announces from behind. "This lad is an unruly one. Real troublemaker."

Jeno traces the line where the pale meets the somber brown. He's starting to feel a little bit funny about this. "Let me guess: it's a Halfbred."

"Oi. Dead right with that one, pal," the Nord confirms. "Morrowind Halfbred."

Gentle laughter shakes the Altmer's shoulders. "Guess he does have a sense of humor, after all," he murmurs.

"Whaddya say? You'll have to speak up, young lad, these ears don't work like they used to."

"Was talking to my new friend over here, that's all," he pats the horse's nose twice for a goodbye, "I'll be taking the white one, per usual."

* * *

The cave is in southwest of Winterhold, pressed close to a rocky cliff for meager company. The locals call it the Sightless Pit, understandably so. More than a cave it's a... straight drop down into the unknown.

They circle the edge of this inauspicious mouth in the ground that they're here to willingly be fed to, but that willingness is swiftly melting away, first from their alleged warrior spirits, then from their simple student faces as they continue to stare down the hole in agitation. They tied their horses to lean birches upon arriving, but something tells Jeno that was unnecessary work.

“So, I think we all just telepathically agreed we’re not doing this anymore, right?” Renjun is the first to speak over the void.

There’s a crease in Jaemin’s forehead foreshadowing a supportive response. “Doesn’t look very safe.”

“It’s a cave. It’s not supposed to look safe,” Dejun counters, and judging by Ravaena’s expression she seems to agree with the Dark Elf.

“There should be a more or less gradual path down," she says. "I don’t think it’s a deadly free fall. We could probably find an alternate way out once we’re there.”

_Probably_ is enough to convince Jeno — he desperately needs this for the warrant — but the two Imperials are still holding onto their skepticism. He can see the fine thread of annoyance pull on Ravaena’s patience, but it doesn’t spoil her relaxed expression. After all, it was only Jeno and her that were supposed to slide down this pit. The additional crew happened, it just did, without her or his consent, and he feels a bit apologetic for not turning them down when he could.

“You can still turn around,” he tells them. “We elves will enter.”

Jaemin walks toward him, lays a weightless hand on Jeno's shoulder. "You didn't have to bring race into this, but you did, and now it'd look bad if we Imperials were to back down."

"I don't know who picked him as the voice of all Imperials, but I can definitely still back down," his cousin disagrees. Jaemin then goes on to say something about how Renjun's reluctance shows he's not from the Empire and the two almost break into an argument. Jeno ignores the bickering and takes a few inspective steps along the rim of the pit, drawing his nose closer. It's hard to see what's at the bottom, the icy, large stone teeth of the mouth protruding and blocking the view.

"How do we know there's an exit and we won't be stuck there, doomed to rot away?" Renjun questions once conciliated. A good question.

"It's a well-known cave in this area. Travelers of the past must've explored every nook and cranny, and there had to have been another way out that they used," Ravaena explains.

Jeno rakes the snowy expanse with his eyes for a rock or other small item he could throw inside for a quick sound check. He spots one, tossing it in. Everyone listens, mutual suspense creeping in the air, but it never resounds.

"It's either deep, _too deep,_ or there's a snow layer at the bottom, thick enough for us to jump," Jeno tells them. "I could try to climb down these juts of rock and check the situation."

Dejun looks like he's holding something in, like he wants to interrupt, maybe volunteer as a tribute to impress the woman of his admiration. A knowing smile makes an appearance on Jeno's lips and he gifts the elf another second, which he spends wavering, no heroic announcement of a brave sacrifice escaping him.

"Alright, I'm going in," Jeno informs and edges closer. He first sits down carefully, lets his legs dangle over the verge. He takes a mouthful of crisp air, attempts to free it from his ribs without the tremble of nervousness crippling it in the process. Adrenaline enters his bloodstream. A welcome guest.

"By the way, I told Yukhei we're here," Dejun says, barging in on Jeno's preparation. "Just in case."

"Why him?" Jeno asks.

"He's my roommate."

With that in mind, the Altmer traps his bottom lip between his teeth, assumes a determined look and slides down onto the closest protrusion. It's stable, it's supporting his weight; both of which are good signs. A quick check down and he instantly spots the next jut to land on. Before going straight for it though, he looks up one last time, at the faces watching from above, attentively, anxiously.

"If you die, I'll bury you together with our deceased tent," Renjun shouts.

Jeno chuckles nervously and gives him a thumbs up, then dives down. He makes a safe landing, or so he thinks, the icy surface hidden under a thinned out layer of snow slippery under the soles of his boots. Before he can even register it, he's falling off the rocky protuberance, down into the hole. Into the unknown.

(...)

Jeno groans as the snow that fell together with him, cold and unforgiving, dusts his face on impact; it's the only thing motivating him to move his rigid body, apart from the voices desperately calling out from the heavens above, from the gash in the ceiling permitting light inside. He bends his upper half upwards, props himself on his elbows.

"I'm alive!" he shouts back, the voices stilling briefly. Then they roar again. "It's safe, you can jump down!"

Jeno monitors his surroundings. The predicted layer of snow, even if thinner, still saved his reckless self. He quickly finds that he's fallen dangerously close to the edge of a large pool of water, eerily black and unpromising. The walls of the cave are icy, fluorescent, and the light bouncing off of them drenches the space in a glowing blue hue. A tunnel leading to the north marks the only way forward, he notes.

The noise of a fuss can be heard overhead – someone's arguing and one of the voices is awfully similar to Renjun's – then there's clattering, and another person joins his company shortly after. It's Dejun. Jeno extends a helping hand to hoist him up from the ground.

"Did you slip as well?" he, now the veteran of entering this cave, asks the newcomer.

"Yes– Fuck– I landed straight on my ass," Dejun complains while rubbing his bum in order to nurse it.

The rest of their crew roll down smoothly, on their feet more or less, and Jeno tries to soften Ravaena's fall by catching her in the act.

"Thanks," she smiles at him. He let's go of her waist to brush off the pesky snow covering her hair. When Jeno turns around, he's instantly met with stares differing in attitude. Renjun looks slightly grossed out, Jaemin is wearing a natural to him half-smile that never seems to leave his face, and Dejun... poor Dejun, that's all Jeno will comment on that.

"Guess we really don't have a choice but to move forward," Jaemin says, his head inclined backwards as he inspects the entrance they just descended from. The students collectively eye their only option – the tunnel. Their stares find each other, and they speak not in words, but hinted emotions. As if on cue, or as if one of them had just wordlessly told a macabre anecdote, they all burst into apprehensive laughter. They're young, so naturally they can afford being reckless, but the question is _how_ reckless. Perhaps jumping into a potential deathtrap is where the line should be drawn?

Doesn't really matter now. Not when they're already crossing that line by accessing the tunnel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new passion unlocked: writing tension.
> 
> this was a really fun chapter to write, and i fulfilled the promise of the action/adventure tag with the ending. 
> 
> don’t shy away from commenting, i’d love to wish you a happy christmas individually.
> 
> in case you want to say something anonymously, [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	7. Darkness Leads Us into The Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here comes the dora the explorer arc, that's all i'm going to say. 
> 
> see you at the end notes :}
> 
> p.s. i won't be adding any lore to this chapter, since i have nothing to add currently. the quoting might return in the future.

The passageway to the mysterious shrinks and widens, imprisoning in the jaws of claustrophobia and liberating the travelers respectively. Twists and turns to the left, then to the right and left again keep them horridly excited for what’s to come, and the one leading the string of students likes to block the path every now and again with his imperative observations.

“There’s something glowing on the wall in the front,” Dejun says with caution.

The second in command of their line, Jeno, pokes out from behind the elf’s back to inspect the possible threat. He squints. “I think it’s a glowing mushroom.”

“A mushroom?” Renjun’s voice attacks from the back. “Move! I wanna see.”

The line threads forward, encompassing the strange fungus that emits cyan light. They soon find out it's a rather common find in the cave, the mushrooms coming in clusters to mimic torches and lead the bunch to a more pleasant for the mind path. Eventually, the tunnel opens into a cavern; there's no need for them to stick together anymore, but no one shows the initiative to leave their little human chain, leaving Dejun to lead them further down the space that gradually sheds itself of the stale air.

"Looks like a campfire." Dejun speaks against the chilly temperature, causing the chain to rip apart. Everyone's scattered, yet close, inspecting. Sure enough, a grave of stones flushing black and a frigid hearth covered in cinders. "Or what was left of it," he adds.

Whoever had built it has additionally left three bedrolls and a barrel behind.

"An odd choice for a camping spot," notes Renjun.

"The bedrolls look like they haven't been used in a while," judging by how stiff the bedding looks, Jeno highlights.

Jaemin gives him a look. "Do you think whoever settled here never returned?"

"I mean, to leave good bedrolls behind without a reason doesn't sound very plausible. They either had to make a quick escape, or..."

Or. Jeno doesn't finish, leaves the thought open for interpretation, but the faces turned his way seem to have interpreted it in like manner. _Or they died before they could get around to collecting their belongings._

"Let's proceed," Ravaena doesn't dwell on it, slicing the shadow of regret before it can find a suitable corner of their minds to creep into. She assigns herself the position of the one in lead, and unlike Dejun, conducts them with certainty and even slight hastiness in her step. Jeno doesn't fail to notice the way she positions her arms at her sides: bent at a slight angle elbows, fingers tending towards claws, prepared for a quick discharge of magicka. She doesn't have a weapon on her, these half-claws her only offense, her sole defense. He knows he shouldn't worry for her safety, and he doesn't. The creatures, if there are any, are the ones to take silent pity on.

The cavern continues to the north, until it abruptly descends down, a narrow ledge spiraling the walls of the fall. They stick as close to the wall – to safety – as possible. A lump of a dark figure lies inert at the bottom, something reminiscent of a couple of sticks protruding from it; that's all the gentle glow of the mushrooms lets on. The closer they get, the less blurred and more precise the outline of the figure becomes, and it's not long before everyone's afraid to take another approaching step.

The unmoving lump consists of two boots, two legs that are stuffed into them, a pair of arms and a head. A back, two arrows standing straight, their noses buried inside, and they look like two lonely flowers blooming in the confines of a dark, cold underground garden that no one ever visits. Except for today.

"Is that..." Dejun starts.

"...A person?" Renjun finishes, and it sounds faint. Renjun must feel faint.

Ravaena is the first to move a muscle, and she walks off the ledge, steadily approaches what they believe could be a corpse like it could jump at her at any given moment, her hands forming proper claws this time, defensive. Upon her request, Jeno casts Candlelight that flies to caress the horrific discovery. He can't see the face she's making right now, but her guarded bearing slackens for a second.

"He's dead," she pronounces, and goosebumps find home on Jeno's skin. The frost coating every inch of this cave is seeping into him, dripping out of him in the shape of cold sweat. "A human," she further reveals.

The silence that follows is somber and beautiful in the most terrifying way. The kind of predeath silence that you are granted the delight of hearing before the last flecks of the rawest, most primitive human emotion – sheer fear – visit the decaying consciousness one last time. Before everything is rendered static.

"What do we do now?" a voice that still feels real, still sounds alive and very much like Renjun's asks, where it was supposed to be only static. That's right, their hearts are still beating, and the fleeting smirk of death was only an indoors breeze aiming to humor their instincts.

"We move forward," a solemn response leaves Ravaena's unsmiling lips. "He was shot to death, or he fell from the ledge. Whichever it was, it could've been caused by another human being, and it doesn't look fresh. It's not... not worrisome."

Dejun stares at the unfortunate man through knitted eyebrows – such a lonely death – and joins her side. "I hope you're right," he says.

The body is forsaken once more as the bunch insist on advancing into the cave, into another tight maze of tunnels, which along the way transitions from an icy underground shaft into ruins of a dungeon.

"Miss Grayore, I must say you're a ruthless adventurer. Not your first time seeing a dead body?" it's Jaemin who ruptures – only the Imperial could serve this question under given circumstances.

"My first, and hopefully last."

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed. You were a real professional out there: stood forward, calm and all. Explained the situation, didn't induce panic, and–"

"Oh, God, _not now_ ," Renjun shuts his cousin down. "This is not the time and place to fawn over logistics. For fuck's sake, Jaemin, we just saw a dead man!"

"I'm just pointing it out. Her behavior was straight out of a text–"

"Both of you–quiet," Jeno attempts, "the last thing we need right now is a ruckus." And the first thing they need is a smooth beeline towards the possible loot, then exit, and that certainly won't be possible were the two Imperials to awaken an undesired presence.

Suddenly, Ravaena halts in her tracks, and so does the rest of their chain.

"What is it?" Jeno questions the abrupt stop.

"There's a darker patch in front," she's whispering now.

"Let me handle this," the Dark Elf offers, and now he's the one providing them with a lambent source of light. Red. Dejun's Candlelight posses a red tint. A round slab of stone sticks out above the ground, a Nordic rune inscribed on top.

"A pressure plate?" Jeno's eyes shoot to Ravaena's.

"Probably a trap. Stand back," she warns.

They wind back a safe distance from the lethal device. Ravaena casts a spell – it's too quick for Jeno's eyes to register anything but an icy glimmer rapidly shooting toward the plate – and it activates the trap that was supposed to catch them unaware. A metallic clank momentarily fills the space, followed by a large square metal grate with spikes on one side dropping down from the ceiling with a force that not only would've minced them into cubes, but also would've blown them a considerable distance back.

"Holy. Fuck." Dejun curses, and rightfully so. "Holy fuck..."

"I think I'm going to cry," Renjun adds to the shock.

"That guy was really lucky he didn't make it to this section," Jaemin says, determined to keep building his pile of out of tune comments.

The couple of Altmers are the only ones who don't audibly react to the deathtrap clamping in on them. They're communicating in the language of suggestive eyes, however. Soon the others catch onto the atmosphere, the tension scintillating around them.

"What's going on?" Renjun prompts.

"It's not looking good," Jeno serves it as it is: cold.

The other Imperial quirks an eyebrow at the broken news. "Oh, was it looking _good_ previous to this?"

"We thought we'd be lucky enough to enter a cave that leads to a burial room of sorts," Jeno explains, "that's what most of the listed caves were."

"And? Is this one not that?"

"Doesn't seem like it. Judging by the body we found earlier and now an active trap, it's very much possible we've entered an occupied territory. Occupied by who knows what."

"By creatures intelligent enough to put up traps and shoot arrows," Ravaena includes, painting a bigger picture for those who weren't in on their wordless discussion.

Another moment of mutual mourning crawls up and snows them in inside the narrow tunnel; it's their hopeless future selves they're mourning, who are turning and twisting their heads in a futile attempt to figure out what will and won't kill them. The feared future draws near faster than the pulling mechanics of the trap.

"What now?" Dejun asks _the_ question. "We could still head back and wait at the entrance."

Jeno shakes his head. "In the hopes of your roommate calling for help? And what if he doesn't?"

"He should."

"Should is not good enough."

"Listen, man, we've got no other choice. Ain't no way we're going there," the Dark Elf's arm cuts the air and points in the direction they have yet to explore for emphasis. "That's a suicide mission."

"It has been one from the start," Jeno can feel himself getting worked up. This is looking worse and worse by minute. He spat out the response just to be conflictive, not productive. If they keep this up, a ravine might crack open between them, separating them, forming two opposite poles, and it's crucial they don't waste their energy on arguing and picking sides.

"Whether we wait or go in, it doesn't matter," Ravaena cuts in, undisturbed, reassuring. "Those who live here will find us if they please so. It's whether we find the exit before they find us, or we don't."

Static.

They're not dead; it's just the bells of hope ringing so loudly in their ears to the point of temporary deafness.

Jaemin whistles, clapping lazily. "Miss Grayore, you're an astounding negotiator."

Jeno can't say he disagrees; the Dunmer deflates at the speed he had inflated, whether it was due to Ravaena's words or the fact it was her who said them. Jeno pays heed to everyone's grim expressions, especially Renjun's.

"Looks like the trap didn't reset," he says, hoping he can inspirit the others with his firm tone alone. "Let's go. The faster we move, the faster we get out of here."

There are no objections rising against his wishes, which means there are no lost minutes of him deflecting them. He's the one in lead this time, and he's wearing a brand new attitude – Ravaena has to be right, and they'll definitely find the exit, and every other possible outcome is just a rootless what if.

They maneuver around the metal grate, proceeding down the tunnel. It broadens in one spot, the now familiar glow of the mushrooms dotting the walls of the open space. Tapering stalactite hang above their heads, awaiting the command to chop their necks like a guillotine. Jeno notices dark, hut-like structures splattered over the area, his hand as a response slithering over his shoulder to lay a prepared touch on the hilt of his sword. The crew of adventurers all tense up at this display of cautiousness.

"There's some type of... tents on the ground," he reports, keeping his voice as low as possible.

The quiet rummaging behind his back tells him they've all pulled out their weapons in order to brace themselves for what these structures could shelter. Jeno would prefer not to slow down, the air of this particular room extracting energy out of him like a Necromantic spell, but they have to be stealthy.

There is a dim but persistent ping of curiosity that shows up in the twitching muscles of his fingers where they wrap around his sword.

"Stay here," he instructs and goes astray for a second. Jeno approaches one of the tents, whispered steps and muted thoughts, flicking Candelight to inspect the contents of the hut for him. It's empty danger wise, however scantily furnished. A tattered cloth acts a bed in the middle. A chest, crafted from the same dark material as the tent, is tucked in the corner. Whatever they're dealing with is well accustomed to living in the dark, the biting cold, among the hardness of these walls.

"It's odd," he says once he returns to his friends. "All of them are empty."

"Maybe no one lives here anymore," Renjun suggests.

Jeno dismisses the convenient alternative. "The trap probably alerted them of someone coming. Now they're either hiding to hide, or hiding in ambush."

It goes without saying the former would be ideal, but a group of simple mage students aren't liable to draw out a reaction that strong, and the sight of them passing these corridors confused and agitated will most likely present them as easy targets. Jeno knows it in his bones – they'll face these nocturnal creatures, but this knowledge, he'll keep it to himself.

The path turns to the west again and the tunnel changes to Dwemer architecture. It's a change no one had expected, but a pleasant one it was. Especially to Jeno; he's read about Dwemers, the Deep Elves, about their advanced race and civilization, as well as their abrupt and wrapped around ambiguity disappearance. Till this day it remains one of the greatest mysteries in all of Tamriel.

The Dwemer built elaborate underground cities near and beneath mountain ranges, laden with ancient steam-powered contraptions. Now, Jeno and his friends are roving about the remains of what once was an impressive stronghold of masterful stonework and metalwork, something akin to copper or bronze, stylized with intricate carvings and runes, illuminated by lamps powered by what Imperials have arrogated to themselves and named electricity.

A massive cavern opens up before them, grand and airy; an underground cathedral of sorts. They've passed sections of chambers locked behind bronzy gates, halls varying in size, huge pipes outlining the walls. They were all impressive, garnering their curious stares, the sounds of astonishment muffled by discretion. But this... this room is on a higher level of impressive.

"This is insane," Renjun says, eyes frenzied with how much there is to gawk at. "It's insane how all of this just lives underground in some random cave in Skyrim, and is never seen by anyone."

They all silently agree. It's insane. _They're_ insane for being here.

The sound of something metallic hitting another surface resonates through the hall. They quickly form a circle, their backs facing one another, unsure of where to look or what to expect. Then there's the sound of a round shape rolling on the stone floor, at least that's what Jeno is picturing in his head right now, and soon a large metal ball appears in their view.

It stops. They're all pointing their blades towards it; no one dares to intake another breath. The golden ball unfolds, revealing a tall — taller than them — partially-humanoid machine with a stern face, armed with a sword blade mounted on one forearm. So, even after all those years, these contraptions are still guarded by functioning sentries. Historians weren't exaggerating when they praised the Dwemer's high technology.

"Run!" Ravaena suddenly shouts out. The machine doesn't seem to like that, and the two diagonal wheels it balances on start gyrating, moving the guardian towards the students at a rapid speed.

No one needs to be told twice. They dash. Renjun starts screaming.

"Don't look back!" Jeno commands when he notices his friend checking the distance separating him and his cruel fate. "Renjun! Eyes up front!"

"It's too fast! It'll catch up!" he wails, but complies. Jeno can't hold back from sneaking in a glance behind him as well. The robot's pace doesn't falter as it holds the deadly blade in the air, prepared to strike. One swing from the machine and you can bid farewell to any dreams of escaping.

There's a gated archway at the end of the hall.

“There’s a lever!” Dejun announces and suddenly everyone finds the energy to speed up. They crash against the coppery gates, Dejun being the one to work the switch. He groans loudly as he struggles to pull it back, and Jeno quickly joins him, their teamwork paying off — the gate creaks as it gives in and starts rising off the ground. But it’s too slow, and the machine behind them is too fast.

Jeno’s heartbeat is so loud in his chest, banging on his ribs relentlessly the same way they’re clutching and shaking on the gates keeping them inside, the rhythm of it polluting his entire being until there’s nothing left but the chant ‘ _do something_ ’ stuck on replay. He turns around to face the thing chasing them. It’s not alive, it doesn’t have the muscles it could move into a set of expressions, but Jeno can swear the carved metal is curled into a stern but blissful face; it’s not alive but it knows its purpose — guard and eradicate the intruders. Jeno is an intruder.

“I’ll distract it. Get in and wait for me!” he tightens his hold around the tilt of the sword.

“You can’t—“ Ravaena tries, but to no avail. Jeno is already running away from the gate. Now he only needs to catch the machine’s attention. _Only._ Magicka gathers in his free hand, and he shoots a fire bolt at the guardian, but it fades against the metal without leaving a scratch. He should’ve guessed it’s resistant to magic, though nothing about that discovery makes him feel better. Quite the opposite, actually.

At the very least, Jeno is successful in stealing its focus away. It stops chasing after his friends who are now crawling through the small opening and to their potential escape.

Good. If Jeno can trick this machine into chasing him around just a tad longer, they can all make it. The very advanced piece of metal twists its head to locate the direction from which the fire kissed him like a gentle breeze, and the wheels start turning. Jeno circles a column, evades a blow that the machine attempts to land on him, and secures himself a straightforward and open run for the exit. His friends watch from inside the corridor, encourage him to work his legs faster with their frantic cheers.

He can’t believe a simple tag tactic actually worked. But it did, and he’s so close to joining his friends.

Except he isn’t.

The lever resets and slides back to its initial position, the gate mercilessly sinking down, dragging the students’ mouths along with it.

Static. The predeath one this time.

Jeno’s fingers that curl around the rods of metal loosen, sliding down helplessly. Ravaena desperately tugs against them from the other side, unyielding for the both of them, even if she knows it’s pointless. Tears start swelling up in her wide eyes.

"No, no, no, no!" she denies the reality they’re caged in. "There's got to be another way to open this!"

"There's no lever on this side," Jaemin reports. The previously collected demeanor seems to have fled his body, too, for there's foreign, harsh seriousness adoring his features.

Jeno pants as he stares at his friends who are so close, yet so distant. He could manage another lap around the hall, possibly, but the lever was heavy enough to require two pairs of strong arms, where he only has one. But even then, he'd have to go for another lap to make sure the crack the gates would grant him is big enough to fit his body. The telltale sound of a metallic ball rolling permeates the air, and he's unable to conspire anymore, not with the fear properly settling in. There's only one path for him to take right now: return to the start, leave his friends in the process. Jeno's fingers detach from the gate completely, and he takes a retreating step backwards. Ravaena's expression twists painfully at this.

A clang assaults the tense moment, coming from the left of the corridor. Everyone's heads snap to inspect it. Jeno can't see, but he can sample the horror his friends' faces are presenting him with. Another machine must've landed from the pipes and onto where they're standing – they're not safe yet, no.

They look at Jeno one last time, a goodbye, a silent promise to return told through their apologetic eyes, and then they're sprinting off, throwing him overboard. His resolve drowns in the deep blue as the unrelenting waves of despair beat into his mortal body from every direction, and it floats back up as the machine behind him casts a foreboding shadow, the stencil of the blade waving in the air like a fin of a starving shark.

Jeno dodges just in time. It takes a moment for the machine to lift its arm again, he mentally notes this defect, and so he doesn't lurk around the gate any longer. When he sprints toward the corridor they had come from, he risks making the mistake of turning around, which slows him down, but he gets to see the other machine behind the gate trail after his friends. Hopefully they can rid themselves of that thing. Hopefully they can survive.

He suddenly remembers the living chambers that were just around the corner. Most of them were gated and closed, but a few were still open. Jeno needs some respite right now; the adrenaline is wearing out, his stamina is drying up, and his sanity is crying out for a timeout. So he runs. He runs to where the mental map is leading him.

The corridor containing the chambers is dark, save for a single lamp twitching dimly in the gloom. The walkway inclines, and Jeno urgently clambers to one of the unlocked rooms in the back, all the while the sound of the rolling sphere stalks him without a break. There's a lever on the inner wall, smaller to the one him and Dejun activated earlier, and he pulls it down with everything he's got.

The gates toil down. Jeno's feet capitulate to the enervation, causing him to collapse on the cold stone, his sword meeting the ground with a clink. He wipes on his trembling lips using the back of his hand, eyes closing shut once the gate is halfway there, cradling him inside. The next time he opens them, the machine is looming on the other side, staring at him with dead eyes. It compresses into itself right in front of the gate, and Jeno is left with the sight of a dusky gold sphere glinting beneath the bluish flicker, waiting for him to leave the chamber.

How is he supposed to get past it now? He has trapped himself in here. Then again, it's slightly comforting. The small, closed off space promises safety, and he doesn't have to run anymore. Dejun was probably right – they should've turned back. That's what they should've done, and that's something Jeno wouldn't have done either way, but maybe the two Imperials would have taken the offer.

But there’s no use thinking about it now. What matters is that they find the exit, and hopefully look for him when that happens. He could attempt to return to the very start where the pool of mysterious black water stands still, where the gash in the ceiling permitting light inside opens the door to heaven, to the outside world – at this moment, the two concepts are synonymous.

His breathing returns to normal. Jeno, too, returns to a somewhat normal for him state. He can afford another ten minutes of regaining composure and then try to operate around the sleeping machine. Or thirty. Another hour wouldn't really hurt, either.

Something scratches against the inside of the massive pipes that connect to the room Jeno's in. A dull sound. His stomach clenches. The thing lurking inside the metal tube starts moving, although it's not the smooth rolling of a ball that he's hearing, but a troubled movement, and Jeno isn't sure whether or not he should celebrate this change.

The lid pops open and falls to the ground. It's too dark for Jeno to see inside the pipe, but he's readying himself for a fight, his right hand hurriedly scavenging the ground for his sword.

Then it drops down. A bony figure enveloped in the shadows of the room. It limps as it approaches Jeno, the Altmer hauling his body backwards in response as terror mounts with every step the unidentified creature takes. It crosses the border the flickering light has marked on the floor, and Jeno can finally take in the sight of it: a wooden club is the first thing to poke out of the shadowy cloak. A scrawny, hunchbacked creature. Its skin sickly pallid, long limbs with sparsely wrapped vines around them inching closer without a drop of fluidity; an ungainly walk.

Then, an unsightly face appears in Jeno's vision. The creature has no nose, only bat-like long slits for nostrils, eyes lifeless and black. Although resembling a goblin, the distinctly pointed ears hint at the creature to be of elven background.

For the finale, the odor hits. A repulsive smell that cramps Jeno's stomach in addition to fear, and it makes him remember the tragic stories he’s read and heard. Stories about the foul-smelling creatures living in the dark. Once upon a time, the unsightly abominations went by the name of Snow Elves that were displaced by the invading Nords, and were forced into hiding, cutting their noses off so they could be 'told apart from the other elven races'. Many of them were betrayed in a deal for asylum they struck with the Dwemer, who forced their wards to subsist only on toxic fungi which twisted them into slaves.

With the Dwemer gone and their mighty ruins left behind, it'd seem these devolved creatures still reside underground, but have lost the sophistication the Snow Elves exhibited.

Jeno lifts his sword to point to the creature's face, preventing it from getting any closer. Just looking at what has become of a once proud and prosperous race of Mer sends shivers down his spine. That, and he doesn't want to die.

But the creature doesn't greet this gesture with hostility. It motions for Jeno to follow as it limps backwards, the club signaling to the pipe above.

Should he trust the creature? Probably not. But there's the machine waiting for him outside, and it'd take a blessing for him to slip past its watch, especially with the creaking gate set to sabotage an easy escape. Jeno was mentally preparing himself to gamble his luck, but now another path full of uncertainties has opened up before him.

The creature climbs into the vent and stills, awaiting his decision. There's no guarantee it won't suddenly lash out was he to decline the offer. Therefore, Jeno picks himself up, slides his sword into its sheath – it's dangerous to go unarmed, but it'd be troublesome to crawl a pipe whilst holding onto it. And this is a living creature, flesh and bones; magic should be able to parry a sudden attack.

He keeps his guard up as the creature strings him along through the pipes, then a few corridors and tunnels. Jeno keeps an eye out for his friends, always lending an ear where there seems to be noise, though it's fruitless.

He wants to believe the creature is leading him towards an exit. It's wishful thinking, but it's what keeps his fear tucked away, which would gladly prompt him to ditch the elf in search of another way, or at the very least his friends. They pass through an ice tunnel, which opens into a room of Dwemer construction with a large staircase. Before he knows it, they're climbing those stairs, the door at the top patrolled by a few other creatures that greet Jeno with equally black and lifeless eyes. They push on the door for those who arrived; a large cavern dwells on the other side.

The ambience is cold, almost mystical in this mixture of ancient ruins and frozen caves. A temple is nestled in the middle: a settlement speckled with huts identical to the ones Jeno and his friends encountered early into their venture. Huddles of tens of these creatures watch warily as Jeno steps further into their territory. No matter the direction, his eyes land on their ghastly faces. They're everywhere, and if they want to kill him, there's no doubt they will. He can't fight back alone, and he certainly can't escape when he's stuck in a place these elves know like the back of their hand.

"Jeno!" someone calls out. Their voice cracks.

It's Renjun, he recognizes immediately. His eyes, wild with agitation, search for the boy, and there he is, standing in the distance, surrounded by the creatures. Not only him, the rest of their group are there, too. He wants to run, to embrace his friend, to embrace Ravaena. Hell, he would even pull the boy's cousin and the Dark Elf in a tight hug. But he doesn't dare to rush past the creature guiding him, the same one who saved him from the stuffy chamber. Earning its malice right now wouldn't be the wisest decision.

"Are you okay?" Ravaena asks when Jeno is near enough for her to use her normal speaking voice, no shouting that could irritate the inhabitants of this place.

"I am. Are you?"

She nods. The others seem to be in one piece still, no missing limbs or fresh wounds in sight. Good. _Perfect._

"What is going on?" he asks. "Where are they taking us?"

"That's what we're wondering as well. We were running from the guard when we first separated from you. Then a couple of these goblins appeared and showed us a hidden path that lead to this place," she explains, her words wobbling. There's panic, confusion, and relief. Jeno is alive, he's all well, and they've reunited unexpectedly fast, even if under these remarkably uncanny circumstances.

"They shouldn’t kill us," says Jaemin. "Otherwise, why would they go the extra mile to take us here and scout Jeno, wherever he was."

"Do you think they can understand us?" Renjun enters the conversation.

"Probably not."

"Let's play along for now,” Jeno murmurs as low as a shaken soul can manage, and that means not low at all. There’s a sense of courage revisiting him, however, now that he’s back with his friends. “If they try anything funny, we run. We can use the pipes to get out of here."

"Aren't those machines lurking inside, though?"

"There weren't any from where we came from."

"I don't know," Dejun expresses doubt. “Some of these guys are equipped with bows. I'm pretty sure that's what brought that guy's demise."

Right. The body they saw relatively close to the entrance.

“When we get out of here— _if_ we get out of here, Jeno, you’re going to owe me another Velvet LeChance," Jaemin shoots him a tired look. They're all tired, both mentally and physically, though the buzz of uncertainty whether or not they can make it out alive subdues the exhaustion, converting them twitchy and wired. Jeno is sure it'll hit him later, in full force.

The creatures are taking them up the temple, enclosing them like they're dangerous prisoners bound to be imprisoned. Or maybe thrown into a lava pool as sacrifice for ancient deities.

"To be fair, I didn't beg you to come with us, so don't put the blame on me," Jeno rebuts the attribution of the outcome to him, and it's perhaps the first time he's openly going against the Imperial. It's not the lightweight complaint that triggered it, but more so the overall feeling that he's responsible for this, even if no one's really blaming him yet. It's a notice, aimed at everyone. "But I'll be more than pleased to treat you to one, believe me."

Jaemin, who's climbing the stairs with familiar difficulty, the same way Jeno drags himself up their tower every time he returns from the training fields, whips around to level him with a perplexed glare. "Right, why didn't I make you beg?" A puny smirk then tweaks the corner of his mouth, the usual inappropriate for given situation attitude making its comeback, before Renjun is ramming a flat hand on his cousin's back, urging him to move on. This display of intact sanity is comforting.

Jeno looks up. The ceiling of this huge space looks woven, like a bird nest, icy blue hue seeping through the cracks. It almost feels like he's gazing up at the frozen surface from the bottom of a lake. Everything is cold down here: the stone they're plodding on, the walls they're passing by, every surface attracts the cold, wears it, flaunts it proudly. And yet these creatures, covered in rags, barefoot, are undaunted by it all.

It takes them three flights of steep stairs to finally plant their feet onto the top platform of the temple. They look around the vast, at the little creatures scattered downstairs, the huts, the huge Dwarwen mechanisms stacked atop every platform, contrasting with the mystical build heavily.

There's two bigger, more detailed, spikier tents situated on the apex, and a lone stone altar placed in the middle.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Dejun comments as another creature emerges from one of the huts. A female goblin. She's special, Jeno thinks, and it's the crown of two horns arranged on her head that leaves that impression. Not only that, for there's scaled armor protecting her shoulders, elbows and knees, and a peculiar staff in her grip. A shaman.

Jeno had assumed magicka has abandoned these creatures, but it makes sense for a few individuals to still manifest it in some ways. However, their shaman seems to be weakened, drained of her magicka, and there's a pronounced limp in every step she takes toward the students. It's in these creatures' manner of walking to hobble, but it still strikes Jeno as depleted.

The shaman looks like she comprehends the language barrier between the two civilizations of the underground and above, and looks at them with troubled eyes, like there's something she wants to communicate to them but can't. The tip of her staff then points to the altar.

Ravaena and Jeno swap quick glances, and then they're moving closer to the object in the middle, their footsteps tentative. They probe the stone plate with their eyes. There's engraved lettering in a strange script, and hundreds of shallow slits like wires connecting to a round panel in the center. Jeno notices them outlining the altar all the way down, leaking onto the floor, the crevices like veins twining around the structure. A generator.

"I think I know what this is," the realization occurs to him. "They must've seen us use magic and are now asking for us to ignite this thing."

"Ignite? How?" Renjun shuffles closer to inspect the alter himself.

Ravaena flattens her hand against the panel without a warning. The magicka she directs to her palm fills the thin slits with lively energy that for a moment expands further into the crevices like quicksilver. "Come, place your hands here and gather your energy."

Everyone complies without a second question, their hands forming a flower on top of the panel. A very shaken, sluggish flower.

And then, it comes to life. A lively, electric blue floods the rifts in the structure, covering the entire cavern in a web of light. From under the hollow edges of the cavern a million particles of light dive out, tiny electric fireflies, and they diffuse over the area, flying up to the ceiling, feeding the icy flame behind the nest Jeno had noticed earlier. Some travel to the lamp poles instead, infusing them with energy.

The sight is magical, the kind that should only exist in the realms of one's imagination. The fireflies swirl around them as they surge upwards, and Jeno stops admiring the view in order to capture the reaction of his friends. They're all equally as dumbfounded, gazing at the animated sparkles invading the air, and their tense face muscles relax at the spell of the fairytale-like performance.

"Am I dreaming or am I drunk?" Jaemin questions, the glint of the artificial night sky reflecting on his dark irises.

"For the first time ever I'll deny the possibility of you being intoxicated and say that you're probably dreaming," his cousin entertains, though distantly, his own sense of reality currently under fire. "Because I think I am dreaming, too."

Jeno turns to look at the shaman. She must've been using her own life energy, her own magicka to power up these ruins. No wonder she seemed completely used up.

The other creatures start hopping in place, and that startles the group at first, but they promptly realize it's happiness that they're conveying. The female shaman disappears inside the hut for a minute, and when she reappears, there's a box in her hands. She brings it to them, opens it to reveal shiny treasure inside. A nonverbal thanks, one they can understand.

It's not magical loot, not in the slightest; if anything, it's a miscellany of items they must've collected over the years, and it most likely came from travelers who were less fortunate than them. Jeno, however, couldn't care less about the failed mission. He picks out a necklace that shines like gold, and it's more than he could've asked for an hour ago.

"If I were them, I'd simply kill us right now. Or keep us as energy producing livestock," Jaemin says as he digs out a few coins.

Everyone collectively glares at him.

"I'm just saying."

"Don't give them ideas, please," Dejun pleads. "So far it looks like they'll let us go."

They do, in the end. Jeno and his friends are doomed to ascend unoccupied corridors, tunnels bearing snowberry bushes and glowing mushrooms, and another set of torturously steep stairs. By the time they breathe in the fresh air of the outside, of Skyrim, they're exhausted, standing atop a snowy mountain, God knows where located. All of them collapse in the snow, doesn't matter how freezing it is; they've been cold for hours now, what's a little snow going to change? The sky is by no means at its brightest, but it still blinds them brutally with its unreserved paleness.

"We lived," Renjun mumbles beside him, then: "We lived!" he shouts at the vast sky like he's made a deal with it and it just lost the bet.

Unattended laughter gently rocks Jeno's shoulders. "Were we supposed to die?" he asks.

" _You_ lived!" his friend manages to rise off the ground, and crawls closer, his feverish face pleasantly blocking the unbearable brightness. "My god, Jeno, you lived. I swear I thought you were going to die when we separated. Who told you to act a hero and leave? You scared all of us."

"Your god Jeno? I wasn't aware I got promoted to the heaven department."

Renjun's relieved face morphs into a fed up one. "You know what I meant."

The Altmer pretends to think for a second. "I don't think I do," he concludes with a smile, turning his head to the side when Renjun threatens to feed him snow. "You shouldn't have underestimated me in the first place."

"Okay, okay, don't get all smug now. How did you escape?"

"That's a story for another time."

(...)

It takes them thirty minutes to climb down the mountain and locate a manmade path, another thirty to bump into another living soul sauntering the area for some reason and ask directions, and an hour to get to their horses. In total, two hellish hours of traveling on foot and not a single raring to move person among them.

"I changed my mind. We should've died back there," Renjun had complained.

Now, they're in the outskirts of Winterhold, at the stables. From here, a spare jaunt up the hill to the College awaits them. A jaunt no one is looking forward to.

"We should spend the night at the Frozen Hearth," Jaemin suggests after they exit the stables. "The gates are closing soon, anyway."

"I'm not opposed to that," Jeno nods, the distance he has estimated between him and his bed in their tower – his bed on the _third floor_ , no less – warming him up to the idea of staying in the town. He searches Ravaena's face for an opinion.

"I'll pass," she says.

"Me too," Dejun echoes.

They then turn to Renjun who still hasn't said a word. Jeno expects a negative response, but, "I'm down," the Imperial shrugs.

The group slows down once they spot the familiar sign hanging above the door to the tavern, inviting them inside for a good, and most importantly _warm_ time. Jeno hugs Ravaena for a goodbye, for a goodnight, the three of them standing beneath the impatient to darken sky as they watch Ravaena and Dejun withdraw into the peaceful evening, so drastically different from the morass that was the first half of today.

"Let's go in, shall we?" Jaemin motions, and they lift their tired feet up the three steps – his heaviest three steps ever taken.

"Do they fill up a tub for you if requested?" Jeno asks him.

"Of course."

He groans at the mere thought of submerging his taut body in hot water. Now he won't be able to get the concept out of his head for the rest of tonight, or at least until the fantasy comes true.

Jaemin has introduced him to daytime Hearth, and it was quite the experience. Right now, however, they're entering the disagreeing version of the tavern – the _nighttime_ Hearth. Upon swinging inside, the hubbub whips at Jeno once, the loud music and discordant singing landing the second lash. It's brimming with people.

"Don't think there are any free tables left," Renjun sighs after doing a quick scan of the room.

But should they ever worry entering social places when there's Jaemin by their side?

"Oh, oh," the Imperial shakes his head. "That's not the way to go about it. It's not tables we're looking for, but empty _seats_." His sneaky arm makes its way around Jeno's shoulders, self-assured. "There, I already spotted a few friends we can join."

There's a glint of mischief in his eyes as he escorts them through the tavern, a smile that doesn't promise any good, and Jeno's forehead creases in a silent question of what the other is up to. But then he sees it. Jaemin is leading them straight into a very personalized trap, a bear's lair if you will, and it's _very_ intentional. The supposed 'friends' are none other than Donghyuck, his Redguard friend, and the Imperial that was present when Dejun leveled an attack on Jeno.

Oh, this hellish day hasn't quite ended yet, alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now, i put my blood, sweat and tears into this chapter. i could've done more, but i was really focused on publishing it as soon as possible so i could focus on other things.
> 
> writing adventure was challenging, especially when... let me tell you a secret. *whispers* especially when it's a random last minute decision and you have no idea what should come out of it.
> 
> let me know how you liked it, and [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	8. Blue Lips Begging, Break Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Three students facing three sacks of marginally pulsating meat and crumbs of lucidity: most accurate description of their odd assembly. Jaemin — damn him, seriously — doomed them to this encounter, and Jeno has never truly felt what it was like being a misfit until now.

Jaemin — bless his soul, wholeheartedly — is the most intact sack of meat among them, and Jeno doesn’t have to say much, doesn’t have to play a part in the conversation. The Imperial who’s playing all the parts has given him room to stay in character for someone who has tasted death not that long ago, now washing the tart flavor off with alcoholic sweetness. And that’s exactly what Jeno’s been doing: eyes on the table, mouth meeting the mug every time he finds it in him to take a sip, vacant ears listening to Jaemin’s voice at intervals.

Sometimes, Jeno notices Yukhei — the Redguard — look askance at him, similar to how Renjun had first welcomed the Dark Elf joining their company. Jeno can’t say he’s surprised, after all, all the human has seen of him was an offensive snarl. He had imagined the Redguard to be a tad more coarse and brutish in correspondence to his solid build. Yukhei, however, is obnoxiously charming and pleasant to be around, smiley and very expressive. It’s guaranteed to make at least one person laugh when he talks, or when he obscures his face in an amplified reaction to another’s comment, that one person often being Donghyuck.

Donghyuck.

They lock eyes sometimes, Jeno and him. They lock eyes and it’s unintentional, just a graze of attention, but neither wants to avert his first. Winning or losing is a constant between them — even when Jeno is too tired for everything else he’s alive for a quick duel — albeit there’s something different simmering in the air this time. It’s almost like they’re connected by a secret unknown to those around them, and every shared stare is but a discreet reminder. Except Jeno has forgotten the intricacies of said secret, and Donghyuck withholds it, yet continues to indicate: _there is a secret._

Jaemin is currently retelling today’s extraordinary experience, Renjun piping in now and again to correct him on some details. Oh, how adventurous and courageous they sound in the words of the Imperial: the highs are saturated, almost theatrically so. The lows are watered down, such as the dread they had felt after stumbling upon a decomposing body; Ravaena is the one who bears the sight of the dead man’s face and Jeno silently wishes for sleep to visit her tonight. Though, in all fairness, Jeno must cut Jaemin some slack. Words can't describe a lack of sound. They can’t convey the predeath static.

Then, the story reaches the part of Jeno’s sacrificial decision and curious eyes engirdle him. There is the faint sensation of his ego swelling that follows – Yukhei is cocking an eyebrow like it's something he hadn't expected from the Altmer – but it's not as gratifying to be the hero of a perilous journey as he'd imagined.

When Jaemin feeds the engrossed listeners with the climax of the story, he presents them with two matt coins. Renjun adds to this by showing the lockpicks he had gathered up.

"Some mysterious underground goblins let you have their treasure and you picked lockpicks?" Donghyuck asks incredulously as he takes the two metal tools for inspection. "I always knew my roommate was up to no good."

"I didn't want to be rude and rummage the box like Jaemin did, so I just took the first thing," the Imperial grimaces and snatches his loot back from Donghyuck's possession, from beneath his judgmental gaze.

The boy seems content as long as he's provoking somebody. His attention then lands on Jeno, and for the first time today, or actually in weeks, Donghyuck addresses him directly: "What did you get?"

Wordlessly, he brings out a golden chain, a small jade-green pendant hanging on it as he dangles it above the table before allowing the chain to drizzle down into a little pile like a snake of gold. They all stare at it for a moment, then Donghyuck extends a daring touch. His slender fingers feel the valuable metal. The chain sliding across his multicolored skin evokes a memory: a glint of metallic honey, human albino versus elven bronze, an inner struggle. But Donghyuck isn't confined inside a carriage, and there's no smart garbs flattering his body, no – they're inside a tavern stuffed with drunk Nords, and it's the outdated mage robes he's sporting.

"It's pretty," is all he says. No additional remarks.

Yukhei leans in to mutter something into his ear. The Bosmer nods along, eyes not leaving the necklace. "Where did you say the cave was? Southwest of Winterhold?" he asks Renjun.

"Yeah, I think so?" Renjun seeks reassurance on Jeno's face. "I don't recommend going there, though, trust me."

"Oh, I know," Donghyuck grins. "I'm asking so I know where _not_ to go."

The conversation then evolves into one without direction, just random pop-up thoughts vocalized. Jeno, once again, blends in with the hubbub of the room and roams a different land inside his mind. That is until someone mentions the curfew – the ones who had been occupying this table from the start will have to go soon – and that seems to rouse Yukhei's memory. The Redguard is hitting Donghyuck's shoulder, snapping his fingers as if that will help him remember.

"Tomorrow's the thing!" he exclaims, wide-eyed. "Didn't you say you want to challenge Jeno?"

The exclamation weighs on Donghyuck's eyelids and he closes them shut for half a second. He looks at Yukhei like he's a traitor.

"...That's right! The thing!" Jaemin tunes in, lighting up at Jeno's side. "Ah, Donghyuck, don't make me upset. You _must_ challenge him now."

"Challenge to what?" Jeno says, a bit annoyed they're throwing his name around without explanation as though he isn't here to absorb all of their unrestrained gossip like a sponge. He takes stock of Renjun's expression, but the Imperial is about as clueless, if not more.

"I changed my mind, you see," Donghyuck utterly ignores him, his lips pressed into a thin mock smile as he speaks to Jaemin. "It'd be unfair, don't you think? You just returned from an adventure, and are so, _so_ very tired."

"Nonsense," Jaemin is quick to dismiss, his hand fluttering in the air. "Jeno's a strong gent. A good night's rest will have him at his full capacity."

Now, Jeno can't say he appreciates being appraised like he's but a racing horse. He's glaring at Jaemin now, _at full capacity._ If the Imperial feels it, he doesn't yield.

"Really?" Donghyuck props his chin in the palm of his hand. "I'm not quite convinced."

"What are you talking about?" the High Elf's raised voice demands this time. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Familiar hunt," Yukhei throws him a raft.

Familiar hunt. A self-organized student event that takes place at the training fields either by or in the scanty forest, with one of the elder scholars assuming the leading position. They cast a familiar — a strong, vivid beast, and most importantly enduring — which two or more students then go ahead and attempt to hunt down whilst competing with time. Without magic, however. Without the ability to choose a weapon, either, for they're given modest daggers. A hunt so primitive and raw, calling for instincts and crude strength and the rest of a person's non-magical arsenal.

Jeno didn't participate the previous year. The reward didn't interest him. The fact that the event is often overlooked by the Azura Committee further demotivated him. Suffice to say, he wasn't planning on changing his mind.

His gut is telling him Donghyuck, who isn't yet bending to Jaemin's persuasions, will ruin that plan tonight.

"Besides," the boy begins, eyes still trained on Jaemin, but it doesn't take long for them to sway Jeno's way. "It'd be a very one-sided fight. No magic, no swords. One party is stripped of its aces while the other is clearly at an advantage."

"Oh? And which party would that be?" Jaemin entertains like the devil he is.

"Me, of course."

"At an advantage?" The Imperial laughs. It sounds almost sardonic. "You're complacent to a fault, Donghyuck. Underestimating Jeno will be the cause of your downfall," he says with his arm thrown over the Altmer's shoulders; another offense of privacy he won't bother tackling.

But this game of back and forth doesn't affect him anymore. Donghyuck's done his damage: it's either Jeno himself speaks up and challenges the Bosmer, or he admits to being the victim of circumstance and lets that discourage him. And that, in front of everyone, would prove what Donghyuck had once preached about him, that he's a coward, and Jeno doesn't need to be reminded what came out of it the last time.

"All I want is a fair fight," Donghyuck says. Donghyuck lies, and Jeno almost puffs a laugh at how shameless it is. Almost. He's too tired and too piqued to act humored right now.

"Sure," he relents at last. "I'll give you one."

The shadow of the curfew is steadily drawing nearer, and the students shuffle off their seats before it can reach them.

"Won't you seal it with a handshake, this promise of a duel?" Jaemin interrupts, because why would his desire for action be satiable?

"I'm afraid handshakes aren't exactly our thing," responds Donghyuck, and he seems very pleased with his witty repartee. His next words are directed at Jeno. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow. Don't be late."

* * *

Hot, soapy water covers the expanse of Jeno's skin, his beaten body blooming with violet bruises, bearing scratches he hadn't felt before noticing.

"You didn't really want to participate, did you?"

Jeno opens his eyes to a dim but warm room, and when he turns his head to the side, there's Renjun leveling him with an apologetic gaze from where he's soaking in the adjacent tub.

"Not really," he admits.

"I'm sorry. I should've said something. Especially against Jaemin. I swear I'll punch him for you one day."

But Jeno shakes his head before lolling it back against the edge of the wooden tub.

"It was inevitable — Donghyuck and I clashing. It was only a matter of how and when."

"But why? Why do you have to clash?" The Altmer can't see his friend's face, but the tone of his question indicates he's frowning. "I understand the whole warrant thing, but... can't it be more neutral outside of it?"

_Why_ , Jeno wonders. Why is a good question indeed; a difficult one consisting of umpteen answers, one more absurd than the other. And yet absurdity has never felt more rational, more fitting, and Jeno has been allowing himself to behave and speak in the name of it. Is it the Altmeri pride he's protecting? Or is it his own stubbornness that propels him? Jeno gave rise to hostility between them by refusing to shake Donghyuck's hand. But the Bosmer is no saint, and has never hinted at neutrality, quite the contrary.

"Neither of us wants neutral," is what he settles for.

A comfortable silence follows, and it doesn't ask anything of Jeno anymore. Suddenly, he's sitting up in a splash, his hand gripping onto the edge.

"What happened?" Renjun pricks up.

"The necklace! The one I brought back from the cave! I think I might've forgotten it on the table." He drags a wet hand across his face. Oh, how incredibly scattered-brained he is tonight.

"We can ask the owner if they saw anything later, but if you really left it there... you might want to say goodbye to the thought of ever seeing it again."

Jeno sinks back down. It was a material proof of their quest for something valuable at first, then their own survival, the little jade reminiscent of an electric firefly feeding the twinkling light of the travelers' fate. He had intended on keeping the memory, or gifting it to his mother when he returns home for winter break, but now he's lost it having been too distracted by Donghyuck's antics.

"I can give you a lockpick?" Renjun seeks to comfort him, to which Jeno manages a weak smile.

"Thanks."

The offer makes him think that he's grateful to have a friend like Renjun. They don't always see eye to eye, and the absurdity isn't as rational to the Imperial as it is to Jeno, but isn't this crossroad of dispute what gives their friendship a nuance, makes it feel stronger, unfiltered?

Somewhere inside the vortex of thoughts he remembers something. Something that had previously caught his attention.

"Hey, Renjun?"

"Hey."

Jeno blows out a soft snort. "Remember when we were drinking here a few days ago and I told you about my and Ravaena's plans to explore the cave?"

"Uh-huh."

"And Jaemin mentioned your health."

"...Uh-huh," arrives the delayed agreement.

"So I'm wondering what he meant by that."

His friend stares down into his tub for a speechless moment, his idle fingers tearing ripples in the water that's progressively turning lukewarm. Jeno should heat it up soon; the bath has replenished his energy to the extent of him affording a quick discharge of magicka.

"Is this the segment where we share secrets and are honest with each other?" he finally says.

"It could very well be, if you'd like."

"Okay. But I got something I want to ask as well."

"Deal."

The Imperial sighs, seemingly searching for the appropriate way to start. "So. I've been labeled as weak — weaker than the rest — for as long as I can remember. And it's true. I was always the scrawny kid, an easy pushover. Someone who was allergic to the early spring sun, couldn't play with the other kids because he might break his bones upon falling, and simple scratches would take a longer than normal time to heal. My immune system would often fail me and I'd get sick a lot. The doctors would say there's nothing wrong, it's just the physicalities I've been handed with – bad luck as they had put it. My magicka is no exception. It's limited and mediocre. Before you say anything, I know all magicka is limited. It's just that mine runs out too fast and too abruptly. That's why I couldn't even train after healing the wound on your cheek."

When Jeno doesn't say anything, Renjun tears his gaze from the water he's been playing with and turns to him, as if checking if he's still being listened to. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just thinking about how I'm never letting you heal me again, or taking you anywhere for that matter."

"No!" Renjun hollers, twisting his body to properly face Jeno. "No, don't turn into Jaemin. I didn't mention this, but one of the things I appreciate about our friendship the most is how you always treat me like I'm capable. And I am! I'm capable. I know I complain a lot, but if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have experienced all these wild things and gone on these adventures for I would've been too scared. I'm so thankful. I really am."

He must've been withholding it this entire time in fear of Jeno reducing him to his abilities.

"To be fair, I never noticed you being more 'weak’ than others. Must be the Altmer in me assuming humans are less gifted in the arcane arts, and so I never paid close attention. You always complete the assignments, and now that I'm no longer ignorant of the situation at hand, I know it's because you work hard. I'm impressed."

Renjun stares at him, surprised, cheeks tinted with post-compliment fever. "Impressed? That's new."

Jeno doesn't want the happiness to fleet his friend's face, but. "What were you going to ask?" he prompts selfishly.

"Eh. I don't know if I want to spoil the mood anymore."

"What mood?"

"You know, this nice, friendly mood of you being impressed with me."

"It won't go anywhere."

The claim makes Renjun narrow his eyes. "If you say so... I just wanted to know why... I don't know how to ask this properly, but... I had never seen you enraged prior to meeting Donghyuck and it got me thinking if there's a reason for your anger? Like, you know, where it comes from and all that."

"Oh, _wow_ ," Jeno breathes out.

"Told you it would ruin the mood. You know what, you can answer some other time."

"It's fine. We made a deal."

Normally, he wouldn't open up about this, but if there was ever an appropriate time to recall some memories, it's tonight, after their shared life-and-death situation. He stalls it, though, creating heat in his palms that mellows the water around him, and braces himself for what he's about to disclose, mentally and emotionally, relaxing his limbs like he's about to hit the pillow and step into another realm. That is the case, in a way. Jeno will be reentering rooms situated at the very back of his mind, padlocked about a dozen times with do-not-enter signs plastered all over.

"Anger is an old friend of mine," he introduces vaguely, dramatically, "but it hasn't always been. I was a bratty, wilful child, sure, and I believed everything had to bend at my will, but the sort of anger that blinds you only made an appearance after my father's passing. A foreigner from the continent stabbed him to death one winter evening. Needless to say, I harbored rancor for foreigners for some time, the kind you hear Altmers display all the time. At the time I also thought my family didn't care for my father's death, because they weren't expressing the hatred I felt. I resented them. I felt misunderstood and betrayed in his place. I know it wasn't true; they were grieving just as much, just coping in different ways. And so... that hatred grew. It grew and it consumed me, and the following year on winter break I ended up beating another boy to a pulp. It was no coincidence that said boy was a foreigner — I let out the pent-up anger on him after losing a match of the game we had been playing. It was... straight out of a nightmare. The sky was pouring heavily. The blood was everywhere: on me, on my hands and my clothes, on him, and it was mixing together with the mud around us. He had almost choked on it, because it was running down his nose and into his open for air mouth endlessly. I'm pretty sure I almost killed him that night."

He drops his eyes down to where his hand is submerged in the murky water. The soapy liquid trickles down his pale skin as he lifts it up to inspect it, his fist contracting leisurely then relaxing. It's clean, bloodless, baptized by the forgiveness of time.

"No one had stopped me because of who I was. Because of my last name. They were all just a bunch of local elf kids from the nearby town, too afraid to do anything. It was my elder brother who found me punching the boy and shook some sense into me. To be honest with you, no one would've batted an eyelid at what I had done. Nobles get away with stuff all the time and it was some nameless kid who wasn't even an Altmer, but my mother made sure the family was given everything they had needed to recover.

I felt horrible afterwards. I had reoccurring dreams about that night. Our manor was silent; they didn't shout at me, they didn't scream. Didn't even lecture me. Silence was all there was. It felt like I was sentenced to be the outcast of our family. My siblings were ever so pristine, ideal children, and there I was, the atrocious son who had no humanity left in him. My only shroud of comfort was Ravaena who had visited us that break. She reassured I still had a place in this world and there was room for me to grow. That it was all a mistake I could leave behind me.

It was hard to pretend and go back to normal, but the dust settled nevertheless. With the help of my family and Ravaena I managed to subdue my anger and was in control most of the time. Until recently. This might sound silly, but.." the steady flow of his speech wavers. "Donghyuck feels like karma personified. Like the testimony of whether I really have or haven't changed. I know he doesn't know all this, but... every time he provokes me it's like he's anticipating my failure, like he's welcoming my anger with open arms. And I'm trying not to engage him, but as you've seen today — it's hard. It's hard to resist the temptation to fight back." _It's hard to deny him._ "He's everything an Altmer would typically contemn. He's also everything I hate. I don't expect you to understand, and I don't expect you to feel the same about me now that you know what I'm capable of. I'm not a good person, and to answer your previous question, me and Donghyuck clash because he enables that version of me. The version I don't want anyone to see."

It might be the tub water glistening on Renjun's cheeks. Jeno would like to believe that's what it is.

"Thank you for telling me, first of all," his friend says in a hoarse whisper. "And I’m sorry about your loss. I... I don't know what to say. Can I gather my thoughts first?"

"Go ahead."

And they fall silent again, and it's just as comfortable as the last time, unexpectedly so. Jeno feels so light, weightless, and he's sure there's nothing Renjun could say in this moment that would bring him down. He wasn't sure where he was standing, what feelings he's been nurturing, and now that he has put all of this forward for Renjun, he's done the same for himself. It's still just as absurd, but at least now he knows what it is about Donghyuck that agitates his darkest desires.

"I don't think you're a bad person," the response Renjun has come up with after what felt like a good five minutes resonates the space. "And maybe that's just my experience, but you've been a good person and a good friend to me. I don't... I don't know how to feel yet, but I think you've changed, and I understand you a little better now. And I understand Donghyuck a little less."

Jeno shows appreciation for this with an upward pull of his lips. He wasn't striving for compassion, he knows he isn't eligible for forgiveness; what happened, he can only move on from but never erase. However, on this peaceful night, he once again thinks he's grateful to have a friend like Renjun.

* * *

The day started off on a very promising note: sunny, clear-skied. By the time afternoon rolls around, Winterhold is submerged in thick fog. Whether it's ideal or inapt for a familiar hunt is a matter of opinion.

Jeno thinks he's indifferent about it as he stands amidst the dense mist covering the training fields. It could be denser. Maybe then he wouldn't have to see Donghyuck doing tricks, spinning his dagger to impress the bunch of first-years surrounding him. Yukhei tries to mimic the sleight of hand, failing miserably. 

A goodly number of students have showed up — students of all tiers. There's the scholar from the Hall of Countenance that will probably be the one casting the familiar. Those who stay here beyond the permitted three years of studies are obliged to pursue a career involving magic. Jeno can recall a few times he bumped into the human scholar. He could probably recall and attach a name was he to juggle with his memory a little.

Ten — that's the name the Imperial scholar has once introduced.

So, the day has started off auspicious, but at least it's not snowing. Donghyuck flips his dagger in the air, grabbing onto the handle with precision. His eyes then — with exact same precision — dart to Jeno's, as if he was expecting them to be on him. He winks.

"I've come to a conclusion," Jaemin says out of the blue. "There's sexual tension between you and Donghyuck," he reveals like it's a casual thing to note and vocalize.

"There is tension. Between his face and my fist," the Altmer counters, but it doesn't really land. And if it lands it's slightly awkward, because Renjun is here too, and last night in the thick of truth and vulnerability Jeno admitted to have beaten someone's face before. He playfully bumps the Imperial's shoulder for quick damage control. "Please, keep your cousin in check," Jeno jests.

"I'm not responsible for his drivel, I'll let you know."

"Then who is?"

"Whoever it is, it's not me," Renjun shrugs. "That mouth is a safety hazard and even after years of looking, I have yet to find a way to close it."

"Hey, that's not nice," Jaemin peers out from Jeno's left. "This mouth has been entertaining you all those years."

"I never asked to be entertained."

Jeno notices the scholar gesturing to and fro, and he leaves the two Imperials to their discourse. Once he approaches Ten, he's provided with a steel dagger right off the bat.

"The two of you will be the first to start," he pokes at Jeno and Donghyuck respectively. Contrary to their strictness, the man's dulcet tones are rather soft and high-pitched, not at all intimidating. "But let's quickly go over the rules before that. No magic. I'll feel it if you cast spells against my familiar, so don't even try. The main objective of it will be to hide, not attack, so you don't have to worry about it injuring you. At least not heavily. The river passing the forest will be the border; don't venture deep into the woods. Got it?"

The two opponents standing opposite of each other exchange quick glances before nodding.

"Good. Any questions?"

"I got one," Donghyuck says. _Of course he's got one._ "What's the prize?"

Ten's face becomes less rigid. The Imperial even grins. "Not telling you until one of you returns victorious."

"Consider it done."

Jeno diverts his eyes to the forest blurred by the fog, contours of treetops piercing through. He doesn't exactly want to exhibit his deadpan expression, so he lets it blend in with the lifeless atmosphere. Ten conjures his familiar without a warning, and the suddenness and sheer power have Jeno taking a step backwards. A semitransparent ghost of a beautiful beast is now staring into the depths of his eyes. Donghyuck was right — there's something about the wolf that denotes a resemblance to his owner. It's the feline eye shape, it occurs to him shortly after the beast hotfoots it toward the forest, disappearing behind the screen of haze.

They wait for Ten's mark. Jeno can see Donghyuck fidget with the dagger in his left hand — _is he left-handed?_ _The bow of bone felt like it was catering to a right-handed user, though —_ the rest of his stance taut with anticipation as he looks fixedly at the Altmer. His face morphs into one carrying a no-nonsense type of seriousness. _Bravo,_ Jeno applauds sourly in his head. _You manipulated me into facing you off, got me exactly where you wanted. The least you can do is be serious about it._

Ten's voice booms, signaling the hunt has commenced. They break eye contact, heads snapping sideways to confront the stretch of land that fades away. A sharp intake of another breath, and he's chasing after the target.

(...)

It's surreal, wandering around these woods. Jeno was running in search of the familiar at first, but his efforts have gradually lessened to a barely ambitious stroll that is occasionally replaced by light jogging. He hasn't given up, no. There's a high chance he'll run into the beast sooner or later, and so he can afford to show quick regard for his surroundings. The thick fog creates a remarkable ambience, accompanied by an undisturbed silence. Everything in his vision is pale and bare: the sky, the trees, the snowy ground. A ghost forest. And there's now a ghost familiar roaming the clouded area.

Jeno looks down at his hand holding the dagger. Its weight is so light in his grip. How is he supposed to fight the wolf like this? Would he have to strike first or wait for it to jump at him? Either way, it seems like a barehanded tussle will be involved.

As already established, everything is pale and bare. Except Jeno is suddenly perceiving a flickering bluish glow which corrupts the paleness that befogs everything in its property. He has found it. He has found the hiding beast.

Jeno maneuvers forward stealthily, walking on the balls of his feet. His heart picks up the pace, letting him know he's ready to land an attack. The fog disperses the closer he gets, and it's like the blindfold keeping him in the dark has been removed, providing him with an appalling sight. The dagger in his hand slips out and falls to the ground.

The familiar is there like he had expected. But it's not snarling in aggression, not crouching backwards with hairs standing erect on its back, ready to pounce. It doesn't appear fearful, either. The wolf looks relaxed, bordering on domesticated as it allows Donghyuck to perform Calm on him — a spell that reduces the target's inclination to attack. In that moment, the world around Jeno stops spinning and freezes in preparation. _A storm is coming._ A storm resplendent in electric winds and acid rains. A storm of fury.

_All I want is a fair fight,_ Donghyuck had said. Donghyuck had lied. And even when Jeno first had unearthed the undertones of perfidy, the lack of shame to act on it is still jarring, and is currently awakening something sinister and petty within him. How dare the lowly Bosmer challenge him to a fight of fairness only to go around and cheat in the process. How dare he constantly trample all over his honor, disrespecting him without missing a beat. How dare he. _How dare._

By the time he starts stomping over to Donghyuck, he stops thinking. Altogether. The remaining traces of rationality demand endlessly: _how dare, how dare, how dare._ Startled, Donghyuck turns around, eyes shadowed by innocence beyond moral reproach — which only further infuriates Jeno, _how dare he act clueless_ — and he tries to evade the storm closing in, but he's far too late. Jeno is pushing him to the ground, trapping him under his weight, a handful of Donghyuck's collar crumpled in his fist. His other fist is drawn back, a crossbow of flesh ready to fire.

"You! You–" he attempts, but chokes on his own anger.

Donghyuck's owlish eyes shake at first, they shake as Jeno catches him off guard, but now that he's holding him down and the world around them starts moving again, they relax, soften.

"The look on your face," his bluing lips quiver in a whisper; pale like everything else around them. "You hate me so much right now, don't you." Donghyuck pays heed to the fist threatening to launch at him. "Do it. I know you want to. I cheated, and I'll cheat again if I have to. So do it. Teach me a lesson."

Jeno closes his eyes as the arm he's holding in the air starts trembling under the heft of the boy's words.

"Stop resisting."

_No. What if he opens his eyes and there's the mud, the blood instead of the snowy white._

"Do it."

He shakes his head as Donghyuck continues to feed the flame. The voice of forbidden desire, the voice of Donghyuck – they are one, homogeneous.

"No." Jeno cannot. He cannot become the worst version of himself again. He can't let the Bosmer win. "I can't."

He lowers the baleful hand, but refuses to loosen his grip on Donghyuck's robes. The sound of him panting fills the air between them, and he's glaring at the boy under him, fierce and wrathful. Donghyuck's not wrong about one thing: Jeno hates him. He hates him _so much_ , with everything that's left of him: the fractured Altmeri pride, the cleft stubbornness. Every part of him loathes Donghyuck right now.

The boy is staring back, his face unreadable. It could be disappointment smearing it. It could be cogitation, or a mixture of both of those things. The last time their faces were this close in proximity, it was something else entirely.

Someone's voice pings in his head. As if on cue Jeno's eyes drop down to Donghyuck's lips; oh, they're capable of fluttering, and each time they do, it's death-dealing.

_There's sexual tension between you and Donghyuck._

Jeno releases his grip abruptly, Donghyuck's back hitting the snow in response. He's ready to free the Bosmer even if it's undeserved, remove the shackles that are his thighs, but the boy is grabbing onto his collar instead, dragging him back down into his hell. Despite his lips letting on a pretty blue, they're warm as they crash against Jeno’s.

Jeno doesn't kiss back.

Yet, he doesn't know what to think or what to feel when Donghyuck retreats. He's inarguably hot under the collar; anger, confusion or slight embarrassment — the culprit could be any of those.

"Weren't you going to kiss me just now?" the boy asks, a coy smile making an appearance.

The nerve of this Bosmer. Jeno shoves him, subjecting him to the position he was supposed to stay in before he decided it was a good idea to rob Jeno of his breath. "Don’t be ridiculous. You're making fun of me." He then scans the ground for a weapon, and spots Donghyuck's dagger neglected at his side. It isn't his but Jeno couldn't care less about any details right now, big or small, and takes it anyway.

When he pushes up, he finds the familiar is still sitting in the same spot, faithful to the spell Donghyuck has put it under. Jeno spares a glance the elf’s way — Donghyuck's lying on the ground, eyes following every move Jeno is making — it doesn't seem like he intends on stopping him from claiming the kill. And so Jeno does, he claims the kill by sinking the short but sharp blade in the neck of the spectral beast, which peters out in a brilliant blue.

(...)

Silent, telling stares greet him when he emerges from the fog. They all know. Maybe not everything, but they know what concerns them.

"Jeno, did you use magic to kill my familiar?" Ten accuses on the dot of his arrival. Yukhei, who has at least five inches on the scholar, towers over behind him, brows snapped together by a twin accusation.

"Think what you will," he retorts and tosses the dagger to land by their feet before storming off. He's already been humiliated today, his dignity dragged through the mud by his opponent, and so he won't spend another minute defending himself against Donghyuck's deceit. He even had the audacity to kiss Jeno, as if that would’ve changed anything. Well, it befuddled his judgment if anything, and he let the boy off the hook a second time, so maybe it wasn't a complete misfire in that regard.

The following day he chances upon Renjun entering the Hall of Attainment. He drags Jeno to the roof, despite it being unpleasantly windy.

"What happened yesterday?" wasting no time, Renjun interrogates.

"You tell me," Jeno shrugs; a sham of oblivion.

"Jeno, _you_ tell me. You came back with the dagger that slayed the familiar and left without explanation. Then Donghyuck appeared and told everyone he saw you using magic.”

What a joke. What a funny little story Donghyuck had cooked for the judges, and to celebrate how funny it truly is, Jeno laughs. It's bitter. "What else did he say? That I kissed him?"

He can see the determination to get to the bottom of this recoil in Renjun. "No?"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't cheat?"

There's silence, then: "I would try."

"Well, then here I am, telling you I didn't cheat. It's true, I killed the familiar in the end, but it was Donghyuck whom I had caught cheating."

"Why didn't you explain yourself right there and then? It made you look guilty."

The Sea of Ghosts is restless today. Jeno could get lost watching the huffy waves; knowing something is furious in lieu of him is comforting. "I didn't want to fight in front of everyone. Who knows what else he might've lied about. Just thinking about having to cross swords for my truth that would've been doubted anyway is making me angry." A hand comes up to support him from the back. His tone must've spiked up at the end there.

_I almost repeated the same mistake I had made five years ago. Donghyuck cheered, he cheered me on as his blue lips fluttered. And then he kissed me, showing me there's a faint warmth still alive within the ashen embers._

But Jeno can only confess to the stirring sea that will reciprocate in an unintelligible soughing, not his friend.

"Before bumping into you, I was heading to the Arcanaeum upon receiving a notice a letter from my mother has arrived," he tells Renjun instead. "Is there anything else you'd like to know before I go?"

"No."

There's nothing Renjun wants to know, and he follows him to the library anyway. Quite the familiar Jeno has found for himself. Curious and no magicka-demanding. And way too impartial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a chapter. revelation after revelation.
> 
> hope you enjoyed the scene that has been living on my mind ever since the idea of writing this fic was born – donghyuck almost vanquishing jeno but kissing it better. or worse?
> 
> the title of this chapter is inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPdFQtRILsU%22) song, and it's been one of a few that i think of when i'm writing donghyuck.
> 
> and [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	9. His Reign and His Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i woke up today and chose violence as i finished writing this chapter.
> 
> hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

The Arcanaeum is home to hundreds of books placed at the fingertips of those who require them. Right now, it's also home to at last ten pairs of unrequired eyes that watch him breach the sacred space. If asked, Jeno could take a wild guess at the thoughts stored behind them after yesterday’s events, and he's certain he wouldn't miss.

“I was told a letter addressed to me has arrived,” he says after crossing the central reading area in order to dwarf the counter at the back of the room.

The librarian sizes him up. “Lorathael.” Then, he’s sliding open a drawer, and the promised letter is stamped on the table.

“Thank you,” Jeno takes the envelope with careful fingers, the strictness in the Orc’s eyes impending like a branding iron. 

He returns to the reading area he had crossed and occupies the only free table. Renjun is still looking around, hiding behind the partitions of the outer ring. Sparing no time, Jeno unseals the envelope. 

_My dear Son,_ it reads.

_I am delighted to hear you are doing well._

_Knowing how solicitous my son is, I first shall dispel the doubts or curiosities you may have. I am very aware of the College of Whisper’s recent activity. It has been successful in stirring our society’s interest. Howbeit, it is no threat for the nonce. My current chief concern is the opposition I have received upon affirming Mater Garral’s admission to our party, but worry not – despite what my respected associates think, it’s a step forward._

_I have been jolly busy and will not be returning to our manor in Auridon this winter. For that reason, I suggest you take a forward ship to Summerset should you sail from Hammerfell. I missed you dearly, but it would be selfish of me not to propose you stay in Winterhold this winter break. Meanellor had expressed the town offers a heavenly sight during its most turbulent month._

Renjun seats himself in front of Jeno. The Altmer abandons the letter for a moment to consider his appearance; his friend has picked up a book that now lies open on the table. Jeno gets back to reading the remaining paragraph. 

_P.S. I had the opportunity to make Gaius Treberia’s acquaintance – the eldest son of commander Treberia and consequently a member of Penitus Oculatus. He took a great interest in Dovah and Kiin, goodness gracious, I wish you could have seen it! The man is somewhat of a hound collector himself and a devoted enthusiast. It would appear they host Greyhound racing in the Empire – something akin to equestrian sports, albeit excluding a rider. The Imperial hinted at a future reunion and it was not of propounding nature. What a fierce man! A character very reflective of his position!_

_Yours affectionately,_

_Taalia Lorathael._

The mention of his dogs humours him, the faceless man’s name – sets him thinking.

“Renjun, your last name is Treberia, is it not?” he asks.

“It is.”

“Do you perchance know who Gaius Treberia is?”

Renjun perks up. “That’d be Jaemin’s father and my uncle, why?”

“The son of the commander is Jaemin’s father?”

“And my uncle.”

“He’s Jaemin’s father? Why didn’t you tell me?” Jeno’s incredulous as he shoves the question toward the Imperial, but the sound of the Orc clearing his throat in warning quells the rising tone.

Penitus Oculatus. An organisation that serves as the Empire security and law enforcers. It is also a personal security and espionage force for the Emperor – the elite of the elite. 

“Why didn’t you ask?” Renjun reflects, but he looks rather amused. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

Jeno slips the letter toward him, his fingers conveniently covering half the paper. “The last paragraph.” 

His friend is initially equipped with a concentrated look, but the contents of the letter soon merit a smile.

“I would’ve been more polite had I known,” Jeno says.

“You’re already too polite and forgiving with him. Jaemin is undeserving.” Renjun then embeds his eyes in the book he brought, but a funny thought must have just crossed by, tugging on his shoulders that shudder in gentle laughter. “Uncle wooing ladies wherever he goes. That sounds very much like him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m joking, I’m joking. Although… he is a very dignified ladies’ man.”

“Ladies’ man? And Jaemin’s mother..?” Jeno is careful as he pries; just in case it’s more inappropriate than he’d estimated.

But Renjun’s face doesn’t betray any discomfort or reluctance. “His father has remarried four times and is currently in the market,” he reveals without blinking. 

“What about siblings? Does he have any?”

“A younger brother. Well, they’re step-brothers, but he lives with his mother, not with Jaemin.”

“I see.” 

It’s quiet between them, but then another fleeting thought tickles Renjun. “I just pictured what would happen if Jaemin’s father was to court your mother–”

“Renjun–”

“You and Jaemin would become step-siblings and be compelled to see each other on holidays. That’d be so unfortunate for you–”

“Renjun.” Jeno cuts in with a strict whisper. He can feel his expression hardening.

The Imperial deflates immediately. “I’m sorry. I stepped out of line.”

Once his defense diminishes and his demeanor slackens, Jeno prompts among the prickly silence. “No, I’m sorry. I overreacted. If my mother wanted to remarry, I’d have no reason not to support her.”

“Still–”

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he then offers his friend a reassuring inclination of his head. “Let’s muse for a moment. If my mother – the kinlady of Auridon, a member of the Thalmor, the Chancellor of foreign affairs – married Jaemin’s father, someone who answers to the Emperor directly and is an Imperial for that matter… All I can say is the news of this unorthodox union would thunder through the whole of Summerset for centuries.”

Just the roughly crafted notion provokes and fills his friend with astonishment. They silently agree that it’d be a scenario of pure chaos, one no one is ready for.

“What are you reading?”

“‘A Dance in Fire’”, Renjun responds. “It’s about Bosmeri culture and physiognomy.”

“Oh? Is there a section for weaknesses?” he asks jokingly.

Renjun shoots him a look. “I’m not giving this to you.”

When Jeno reaches for the book anyway and rotates the words until they’re not upside down anymore, Renjun doesn’t stop him. He leafs through, eyes picking up the first line of each paragraph. Jeno could maybe give up a few hours of his weekend to fully commit. For now, he’s simply sampling the first impression it gives him.

A sketch of a bow halts his absentminded flicking of the pages. He reads the entry: _the best archers in all of Tamriel, the Bosmer snatch and fire arrows in one continuous motion; they are even rumored to have invented the bow. They have many natural and unique abilities; notably, they can command simple-minded creatures and have a nearly chameleon-like ability to hide in forested areas. By the age of thirteen, Bosmer youth are typically proficient enough with the bow to accompany hunting parties._

_The Bosmer are perfectly willing to purchase and use wooden bows crafted by other races, but the Green Pact prevents them from making any of their own. Traditional Bosmer bows are crafted from horn and sinew._

_The Green Pact is a strict code upheld by many of the Bosmer of Valenwood. It is said to have guided their existence since the beginning. Its rules are clear. Do not harm the forests of Valenwood. Do not eat anything made from plant life. Eat only meat. Do not kill wastefully._

Interesting. So it’s a traditional bow Donghyuck carries around.

“Do you think the Bosmer still stick to their traditions?” he asks Renjun who’s waiting for his book to return to him.

“I’d imagine those in the countryside still do to some extent.” 

The book circulates back to its borrower, capturing his attention, and without the hand of distraction holding him in place, Jeno is left to fall into a brown study. It takes him a few minutes to surface from his dive. 

“Can I ask you about something?” he utters.

“Of course.”

“I’m not trying to sound condescending – that’s not what this is. I’m genuinely confused why the Arch-Mage chose Donghyuck as his disciple.” 

It takes some time, some consideration for his friend to grant him an answer. 

“I think it’s because the Arch-Mage simply has a soft spot for him. And Donghyuck has explicitly expressed he won’t be returning to the College next year, no matter whether or not he gets the warrant. So, I think the Arch-Mage decided to take him in because of that, regardless of Donghyuck being a novice.”

If Jeno thought he couldn’t understand anything about the enigma by the name of Donghyuck, now he feels downright dull-witted. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he bet everything on a single school-year?” 

Jeno has done it before – he was sure he'd obtain the warrant on his first try. However, he was never against the idea of trying again; it had simply never visited him. 

Is the warrant not as important to the boy as he makes it out to be? But isn’t their shared need for it the main reason Donghyuck is so persistent with tormenting him? This doesn’t make sense. Nothing the Bosmer has done does. 

Once again, Jeno’s condemned to wonder. 

* * *

Tiny crystal petals descent into the black sea night and day, a portentous foreshadowing: blizzards are coming. 

But that doesn’t concern him. When they arrive from the north and disembark, bustling with vim and vigor, threatful, Jeno will be enjoying the songs of delicate Summerset breezes. Even though he appreciates the sentiment, he’s decided to disregard his mother’s suggestion to stay in Winterhold.

“Have you decided what to do for the break?” he asks, hands behind his back, eyes trained on the little window in his sleeping quarters. 

“I’ll return home,” responds a female voice.

Jeno confronts the one it belongs to by twisting around. Ravaena’s situated on the edge of his bed. “What about you?”

“I’ll return, too, but not home.”

In a silent question, she tilts her head sideways.

“My mother won’t have time to come back to Auridon, therefore I’ll be joining her in Summerset.”

This makes his dearest friend twinkle. “You’ll have to drop by, then.”

“And that’s a promise.” Jeno reverts to the window. “Also, you might want to hear this. Mater Garral was admitted to the party.” By the time he’s readied himself to face Ravaena’s reaction, the twinkle dies down. There’s a neutral countenance shining on behalf of it. 

“I won’t delude you. I think your mother has erred in supporting the Imperial.”

“...I think she made the right choice. But why do you think that, pray tell?” he slips beside her, and dares to take hold of her dainty hand as his eyes search hers for rationale.

“Do you remember what my mother said back in summer? Their goal is to slither in as many Imperials to power in Summerset as they can.”

“Imperials aren’t our enemies, _Raven._ They’re what we need if we want to convince other provinces to be on our side.”

“Joroth, you only think that because you’ve made a few Imperial friends. Most of them are at cross purposes,” she says firmly, and Jeno recalls the words Renjun once uttered: ‘ _To get a sense of a true High Elf, Jaemin should interact with someone who isn't that open-minded in respect of Imperials. Someone from the main isle Summerset. Someone like Ravaena’_. Her other hand comes to ghost over where he’s holding hers, as if nursing the shift in Jeno’s mood. “He’s already been admitted, hasn’t he? There is no use in us debating this any further.”

Jeno looks at her gentle hand before answering. He nods. “Okay.”

“You should tell me about the recent familiar hunt,” she calls forth the topic, one Jeno had no animus of covering today. Or ever. Ravaena wasn’t present on that foggy afternoon that started off sunny, clear-skied, and ended with his lips burning against the ashen embers. 

“I didn’t cheat,” he says, a little too dry, a little too fast. 

“I know, and that’s why I was beyond surprised when I heard about it. There are many things that you are, and neither of them is foul.” 

“Thank you for believing me.”

“ _Of course_ I believe you. I would have to be out of my right mind to believe that Bosmer instead.” 

If that’s the case, more than half of the student body is out of theirs, Jeno thinks. He’s a cheater without a drop of decency in their terms. A cornered Altmer who had resolved to dishonest ways because there was no way he could’ve played fair against a Bosmer, a naturally gifted hunter. 

Altmers were always branded as vipers by other races. Knowing this, Donghyuck has been releasing his shots one after another, but a few little arrows will not kill a serpent. And so, Jeno fears the hunt hasn’t ended yet, and his heart is what the next shot pierces. The final one. The fatal.

* * *

Their last lecture before the winter break. Their last spell, and it happens to be Muffle. 

Jeno isn’t sure whether or not Johnny will visit Summerset on a whim this year, but oh, he’s hopeful. All he needs is an opportunity to deaden his footsteps and sneak up to him in honor of sweet karma. 

Their Illusion master Drevis Neloren dismisses them shortly after introducing the theory and the particulars of the spell. Inside the Hall of the Elements, the excited for the upcoming break students raise winds of chatter.

“Finally,” Renjun groans. “And we’re ending on such a good note. No more Destruction or Alteration. Can’t wait to go home and be useless for a month.”

“Sounds like most people will leave,” Jeno shares his observation. 

“Seems like it. I only know a few that’ll stay here. Donghyuck, for example.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just stores the given information and forgets about it as soon as he overhears the Bosmer’s name littering another conversation. Two other Altmers on his left are currently discussing recent goings-on of the College, or at least that’s what Jeno gathers from staying alert upon intrigued. 

“...He was with the first-year Redguard. The brawny one,” one of them says.

“Lunatics,” derides the other. 

“What could you do? A Bosmer has no other choice but to go to extremes, as expected. How else would he fetch the warrant?”

“Not by being a proficient sorcerer, I certainly agree.”

Jeno tames his curiosity, along with the growing feeling of worry, only allowing it go berserk after him and Renjun enter the courtyard.

“Hey, did something happen with Donghyuck?” he asks the Imperial. 

“I hope not.”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

“He and Yukhei returned from an adventure last night. Pretty sure our fun lil’ story inspired them to enter a cave themselves. I don’t know much yet, because he didn’t return to our room. Tolfdir came by this morning and told me they had taken him straight to the other tower.”

This could only mean one thing. Donghyuck and his friend had returned bearing injuries serious enough for them to be hospitalised in the care of those who are skilled in Restoration. So the boy won’t stay the second year for the warrant, but he’ll risk his life to obtain it the first. And what if he… What if Donghyuck, unlike Jeno, didn’t return empty-handed. 

His resolve is starved, pleading, and the mere thought of the Bosmer gaining leverage over him is enough to satisfy it. More than enough, almost _too much._ Jeno needs to get serious. He needs a plan.

(...)

“I need a plan,” he frets audibly.

They’re in Frozen Hearth, him and Jaemin, and it’s been under twenty-four hours since he found out about Donghyuck’s situation. Why he’s telling this to Renjun’s cousin – the son of the son of the Empire’s number-one lawman – he’s not sure himself. 

Nonetheless, Jeno proceeds to voice his worries. “I have a feeling he’s got something against me.” 

“You have training tomorrow, right?” the Imperial asks, and it’s just a tad context defying. 

“I do. But only until afternoon. It’s become too cold for all-day training.”

“Expect my arrival around the evening. I’ll knock thrice. Two times in a row and one delayed,” his own words draw a grin out of him. 

But Jeno casts him a confused look, that’s all. 

“I said I’m on your side, did I not? Give me a day and I’ll provide you with this plan you so desperately need. Don’t worry,” Jaemin adds upon noticing Jeno’s lack of enthusiasm. “It’ll only be half as dirty as the games Donghyuck plays.”

(...)

Jeno’s restless as he sits in his armchair; or, attempts to sit still but is unable. He every so often gets up to pace to the window just to see if perhaps the view outside has magically shifted compared to when he last checked. But it’s always the same, unchanging. He’s rising to his feet again, ready to embrace the stationary sight of the sea, but then. 

Three knocks, _two times in a row and one delayed_ , noise against his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

And come in Jaemin does. He closes the door behind his back without advancing any farther. 

“You’re not rooming with anyone?” the Imperial’s eyes wander around Jeno’s bare room, his solitary bed. “That’s lovely.”

“If only I could concur with you – without Renjun, there’s no early bird chirping me awake.” Jeno sighs. “But let’s cut to the chase.”

“Of course. As promised, I’ve come here with a present,” Jaemin shows him an enigmatic smile, and that in and of itself could pass as a gift, but it’s not clear what should be expected from it. “I heard through the grapevine that the Arch-Mage keeps account of all that interests the College and every other body in the field of magic. And that account is a book, which should be in his quarters.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ten.”

The scholar from the familiar hunt? What business does he have helping Jeno?

“How do I know I can trust him?” Jeno’s eyes narrow accordingly. 

“I can’t guarantee you can, but he mentioned he knows your brother.”

The scholar seems to be about the same age Johnny is; he must be considering he has mastered the spell to the point of his familiar not disappearing for a substantial period of time after being cast. There’s a chance he and Johnny were College comrades. So, it’s plausible, Jeno decides and his suspicion retreats. “...I see. Continue, please.”

“Since this is the last week before the break, this Saturday will also be the last. And that means we’ll have the Collections – with everyone gathering in the courtyard, it’s the perfect opportunity to act. The Arch-Mage is currently on a duty travel, and won’t be returning for the event.”

“So you’re suggesting I should…”

“Yes,” Jaemin confidently confirms his incomplete guess. “You should _borrow_ the book, and allow me to tell you how exactly. The main tower won’t be locked, but it’d be too dangerous for you to enter through the Hall of Elements. We’d have you leaving to your tower instead, pretending you’re tired for the night, and accessing the roof. You’d then cross the wall to the main tower, sneakily, and enter the staircase. It’s very convenient to us that the Arch-Mage’s quarters are at the very top. And as you can see,” Jaemin points to the lock in Jeno’s door with but a look, “the locks across the building are identical, too. We’ll have you borrow the lockpicks from Renjun and you will then learn how to unlock your own door, and then utilise this skill for when the time to unlock the Arch-Mage’s comes.”

Jeno flounders for words, something to express the shock that twists him catatonic.

“Did you come up with all of this yourself?” he ends up asking.

“Minus the idea of stealing the book. Everything else is the work of my imagination, yes,“ the Imperial proudly tucks his chin.

The Altmer raises his eyebrows; he’s enthralled. Needless to say, Jaemin didn’t disappoint. However…

“It’s fraught with danger, this plan of yours,” he’s forced to criticize. 

“I created it with the thought of you wanting to win in mind. Should I remind you your enemy doesn’t turn away from danger?”

He doesn’t need to be reminded by outsiders when Donghyuck is very consistent with doing it himself. 

“Renjun won’t like this,” he reroutes. 

“We don’t have to tell him.”

Jeno entertains that possibility, but it doesn’t quite stick. His friend might raise objections against this high-risk idea, but he deserves to know. _And the lockpicks in question will be his_.

“I think we do. Just so all goes smoothly.”

“So I’m assuming you’re willing to carry this plan out?”

Jeno gives himself another moment of consideration, but at this point, he’s thinking just to think. Just because the rational side insists on him to review his options before he utters the decisive _yes_ , and succumbs to the pressure of Donghyuck’s ploy. The boy has pushed Jeno far enough for him to march against his own ethics, and it’s so obvious he should walk away, find another way, but retreating now would be as good as welcoming defeat. A war is a war, and it demands sacrifices. The kempt fairness Jeno has maintained until now will be the first real casualty, a bishop he has to leave behind in order to strike down Donghyuck’s queen in due course.

Before leaving Jeno to his musings, Jaemin requests something of him.

“By the way, I would appreciate it if my involvement was kept a secret. If the situation escalates, let’s just say it would leave an unpretty stain on my name.”

The shamelessly expressed want to bail out only makes Jeno smile. “Worry not. I will not betray your efforts for I am indebted.”

Jaemin gives him his final, _knowing_ look, and fleets through the door that had been awaiting his knocking the entirety of this evening. Oh, he must feel it, the way Jeno’s conduct around him is vaguely but certainly veering towards polite. He can’t help it – the Imperial’s father is Gaius Treberia, for goodness’ sake. 

* * *

_“There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red,_

_Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead!”_

It’s here – the crucial evening of the Collections. Everyone’s decked out in their fanciest garbs, kissing these stone walls goodbye before wintry January overthrows December, and ascends the throne to form a temporary dynasty of snowstorms. Large pods of fire burn through the night, barricading the courtyard from the cold that now lies in wait beyond the main gate.

_“And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade,_

_As he told of bold battles and gold he had made!”_

A selection of Nords from the town had been invited to this grand feast, and have therefore shown up, their loud Nordic tunes vibrating in the space as they strum their lutes and strain their vocal cords. Ancient tales made into melodies and song lyrics accompany the lively chatter.

_“But then he went quiet, did Ragnar the Red,_

_When he met the shieldmaiden Matilda who said…”_

The courtyard is bestrewn with tables abundantly blanketed in meals and drinks. Jeno shares his spot with the two Imperial cousins, and a few other third-years who joined solely because Jaemin is here. 

Jeno looks heavenward as light snow starts falling down graciously onto them.

_"Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead!_

_Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed!"_

It’s his nobility that bleeds silently as the star of Azura winks at him from above. Soon he’ll be performing an act so unfit for his status. A crooked act of thievery, and it’s all because of Donghyuck. 

Speaking of the boy, he’s sitting at the faraway table jammed with students. Yukhei is there, and so is Dejun. It’s not that Jeno had tried to spot the Bosmer – it happened as a result of him looking for Ravaena. And his search was successful; Ravaena is seated next to her roommate, the same one that had eyed him thoroughly before, at the table that is occupied by Altmers exclusively.

“I know this one!” Jaemin declares when the Ragnar the Red song switches to one about the Dragonborn. 

“We all know this song,” Renjun murmurs, already slightly annoyed with his cousin who’s been too reckless with the courtesy booze.

“Okay, okay,” the Imperial swats his hand. “Let me see if I can still recite the dragon version.”

And so, there is an attempt. 

Jaemin bursts into an ancient tale sung in the dead language of dragons, his arms splaying to grab the two nearest bodies and rock them side to side. Renjun falls victim to this. “Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin, naal ok zin los vahriin. Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal!” _(Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honor is sworn to keep evil forever at bay!)_ “Am I saying it correctly?” he stops his wobbling to ask his cousin.

But Renjun is cruel enough to grab an unaware Jeno and drag him along. “You should ask Jeno. He’s the dragon expert here.”

The Altmer casts his friend a stare that asks, _really?_ He can feel the pending mockery.

“He even named his two dogs after the Dragonborn.” 

There it goes. The conversation nobody asked for. 

_The son of Gaius Treberia_ smirks at the juvenile geekiness. “Really?”

“Yes. Dovah and Kiin,” Jeno confirms, impassive. “And your father admired them greatly.”

“Did he now? I had no idea he had the pleasure of meeting you before.”

“It’s because he hadn’t. My mother, on the other hand, is a different tale.”

Surprisingly enough, Jaemin doesn’t press for further details. “You’re very tense tonight – you should drink up.”

“I don’t think I should,” Jeno disagrees, and his eyes attempt to convey that _he really shouldn’t_. 

But Jaemin, who’s very aware of every undertone of tonight’s kismet, doesn’t yield. “No, I believe you should.” 

And it’s not exactly a suggestion, or at least Jaemin’s eyes trimmed with underlying strictness make Jeno think it wouldn’t be smart to refuse. Without another defiant word, he takes one of the Nord mead bottles, pouring himself a generous amount into a cup. This seems to please the Imperial and he returns to his positively tipsy self. 

Jeno stares down the beverage awaiting his swill, and his fingers reluctantly wrap around the wooden cup. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Jeno _could_ use the help of alcohol to aid him through tonight, because the even snoring of anxiety is starting to bother him. 

He’s about to lift the cup to his mouth, and then he feels a tap on his shoulder. Not a physical one, but rather a message sent through someone’s eyes. It doesn’t take long for him to find the one demanding his attention.

Even from here, he can tell Donghyuck’s staring at him. The boy raises his own cup in the air and tilts it toward Jeno: a distant chink. _Cheers_ , he seems to mutter as he downs his drink. 

Jeno doesn’t mimic the motion at first, but then he’s taking a determined sip. Upon the taste washing over that determination recedes at once. It’s a local swill the Nords love; among the other races, however, a different popular opinion prevails – it’s an awful brew. 

It’s interesting, Jeno thinks, and interesting often means it’s too odd for an instant opinion, but far from being the worst. The flavor of honey is strong, overpowering. He can’t decide whether it saves or ruins the taste, and whether he does or doesn’t mind it. It’s almost like the liquid version of… metallic honey _._

Jeno gets to his feet. 

“Tired already?” Jaemin asks. 

The Altmer regards the oblivious third-years poking their curious eyes at him. “...Yeah. Not feeling well.”

Though it doesn’t look like Renjun willingly expresses it, the shade of disapproval darkens his irises. It was hard, convincing him. It was even harder to pry the lockpicks from his possession; they’re currently pressing against the bone of Jeno’s forearm, hidden beneath the long sleeves. If only the frosty metal could sear his skin every minute of his prone to wrong existence, punishing him for this decision. Instead, it has adopted the warmth of Jeno’s body and is now an extension of him. 

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Jaemin attaches the seemingly innocent farewell to which Jeno nods, down in the mouth. 

The last thing he sees before steering his head toward the tower is Donghyuck’s attention which in that moment belongs to him only. 

(...)

He’s staring at the door. The door stares back.

There’s still time to turn around, pretend he was never going to break into the Arch-Mage's quarters. There's still time to rethink this. And so Jeno, very aware of all his options, still draws out the two lockpicks from his sleeve. But first he listens; no other presence triggers his detectors.

He's spent three nights picking at his lock until it clicked – not only the lock, but also the understanding of this dishonest art. Thus, a _feel_ for it was developed. He quickly found out scrubbing was the fastest, easiest way. 

Jeno inserts one of the lockpicks into the bottom of the keyhole and applies slight pressure until the driver pins rise above the shear line. He then uses the remaining pick to use it at the top of the lock, sliding the rake all the way to the back. After applying torque and scrubbing the pins until they all set, he twists and.

_Click._

He can take that breath now.

This is it.

He's entering.

The door doesn't creak as he gently presses against it. The shy wink the star of Azura had blessed him with back in the courtyard has turned out to be a promise of diminutive luck. 

These quarters are unmatched, he finds out immediately. A dodecagonal room with an antechamber and a central garden. There is a curved partition stone wall separating the sleeping area from the tiny oasis and the rest of the room. Different rugs lie on the floor, meanwhile a few College banners outline the walls. 

Mounted animal heads and skulls stare at the intruder as he advances into the room; bears, wolves and sabre cats. A personal alchemy lab with a set of shelves on either side and two further sets to the right hold various ingredients, potions and poisons.

A dagger display case piques his interest. It contains a sleek Dwarven dagger. 

_He's getting carried away by all there is to see._

Jeno returns to the desk that is placed in front of the little garden, the fragment of a magical forest facing the guest chair; the Arch-Mage's visitors are nothing short of privileged, given they're presented with quite a magnificent view each visit. Without the natural light seeping through the tiniest windows, without the candles dripping wax, the only source of light is the stunted glowing mushrooms and small sparkles dancing in the branches of the tree – yes, there is a lone tree in this room, naked and a tad spooky looking, but impressive nonetheless. 

He scouts the desk for a book that would fit the description Jaemin gave him earlier today and prays he doesn't run out of providence. 

He finds it, he takes it. He's ready to bring it back to his quarters and quickly write down the most important, eye-catching parts. For the first time ever, living on the third floor proves to be of some use – staying here is too risky, and he's pretty sure he can afford a back and forth between his and the Arch-Mage's quarters. 

So Jeno prays he doesn't run out of providence and, lo and behold, it rushes to abandon him in a great hurry. Someone's outside the door, that much is clear. His initial instinct is to flee to the back, behind the curved partition, and hide in the advantageous gloom. But the door is already moving inward. 

Jeno's breath is, too, moving inward as he refuses to release it. All he can do right now is stash away the book behind his back; except it's not in the slightest secretive, quite the opposite. 

Four slim fingers appear, and they grip the edge of the door. Human albino versus elven bronze. 

His eyelids slam shut on their own accord. _This is not real. This is not happening_. When he opens them, the Bosmer is fully inside and in his sight, hesitant at first, then drawing nearer. 

_Stay back_ , Jeno wants to shout out, but all of him is frozen right now. His feet, his breath, his voice – all of him. Donghyuck takes advantage of this without demur, inching closer with every step that he’s taking. Featherlight footsteps, yet the ground under Jeno’s feet is quaking. 

Lastly, the boy halts when he’s within arm’s reach. But it’s not the Bosmer who’s been bedeviling him at every given opportunity. It’s a phantom from that night in Cyrodiil, smoky eyes and fervid skin. The corset vest is back in action, snuggling his waist; no loose strings this time. Tiniest snowflakes crown his copper curls; evidence of this wintry, crucial evening.

Donghyuck sips the perturbation of the Altmer soundlessly, and then his eyes droop down to the arm hiding the book. Jeno stands stiff-backed as the boy reaches for it, but he doesn’t lose his grip as his secret is pulled out in the open. There’s a moment of them holding the book together, connecting them like a string of deplorable fate. Donghyuck lets go.

"A noble Altmer gets expelled from the College of Winterhold for stealing from the Arch-Mage's chambers. Wouldn't that make a compelling header?" he attacks.

Right now, Jeno is just a fly entangled in Dongkyuck’s web, utterly powerless. A beautiful web, so carefully weaved: he’s a coward, a foul cheat that will go to unthinkable lengths to win. And Donghyuck, Donghyuck is but a boy, well-acquainted and prefered by the Arch-Mage. When facing death, what option does the prey have other than to beg his predator for salvation. "What do you want?"

Donghyuck's arm extends, guiding Jeno's eyes to the desk he just rummaged. "Let's first sit down, shall we?"

He assumes the position of the Arch-Mage by enthroning the man's chair, and Jeno is left to fulfil the role of a privileged guest. Though reluctant, he cannot refuse and is forced to play along, entertain the Bosmer until he’s satisfied.

It’s almost offensive how there’s no haste to anything Donghyuck does. He beholds the space as if it’s his first time being here. “Quite the quarters Aren has,” he notes pointlessly. Upon receiving no response, he finally considers his _guest._ “You asked me what I want.”

“I won’t give up the warrant,” Jeno interjects stoically. 

Donghyuck quirks his eyebrow at the sudden opposition. “It’s more important than your reputation?”

“I won’t. Give up. The warrant.”

“I don’t need you to. I’m not cruel to demand something like that.”

“Then?”

There’s a pause. The Bosmer's eyes bore into him, and his next words are deadpan. “You already know what I want.”

It’s always been there, the knowledge, lurking in the shadows of Jeno’s mind. He knows. Oh, he knows, and he wishes he didn’t. Donghyuck is a convicted criminal of thought, and many times did Jeno secretly wonder if he’s his prison. They’re both outlaws inside these thick stone walls, tucked away from the discrimination of the courtyard. Unknown temptation, latent desire, unresolved tension. Aching inhibition. As Donghyuck allowed Jeno to taste the sweltering air of his tailored hell back in the Empire, he said he had hoped for tonight. Has tonight finally come?

“I think I do,” Jeno admits.

“And you’ve been turning a blind eye to it this whole time. You’re the cruel one, Jeno.”

“It’s hard not to when the signals are this mixed.” 

A smile dangles on the corner of Donghyuck’s lips. Jeno can’t reciprocate, however. “You told everyone I was a coward, made me angry on numerous occasions. You made me challenge you to a familiar hunt just so you could put dirt on my name,“ he lists the wrongdoings, his voice icy, and he’s doing it more for his own judgment than anything else. “And now you’ll manipulate me into having sex with you?”

For a fleeting second, the muscles on Donghyuck’s face tighten at the remark. “Makes me sound really bad when you put it like that.”

“Didn’t mean to surprise you. You are quite the worst.”

Donghyuck doesn’t respond, gives the Altmer room to think.

“Let’s say I do what you want me to. Can I trust you to not tell a soul about what you just saw? Not the Arch-Mage, not your friends.”

“You can.”

“Will you let me keep the book and use it until I’m finished?”

“I will.”

“Will you stay away from me?”

The third ultimatum stutters Donghyuck’s otherwise eager stream of responses. “I will,” it comes at last.

“Okay,” Jeno seals the envelope, and he seals it tight. He’d be damned if someone took a peek at the contents of their blasphemous contract. “If you break any of these promises, I’ll find a way to deal with you.”

Donghyuck abandons his throne. He glides closer, walking around the table and disappearing behind Jeno, leaving him to wonder what’s next. His fingers akin to gentle brushstrokes scrape on the Altmer’s shoulders that are tensing up by the second. And then the ghost touch of the phantom travels up his nape — a trail of shivers — and suddenly the fingers are clawing at his hair, forcing his head backward. “You’re threatening me now?” 

Lightning is captured in Donghyuck’s eyes. Or maybe it’s the garden of flashing sparks reflecting on them. 

Jeno’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, fingers clamped into the flesh of his palms. He stays quiet. Donghyuck will have what’s coming for him, he will. 

The boy then lets go. He leans on the desk. Two demanding hands bloom before him, the same way they had once demanded for Jeno to give up the moth. There’s nothing to hand in this time, he can only give a piece of himself, his flesh; an offering to the self-proclaimed god. He puts his hands in Donghyuck’s cautiously, and the boy places them on his thighs. 

“Wait. Here?” Jeno is incredulous as he asks. 

“Yes, here. Where else?”

“But we’re in the Arch-Mage’s quarters. You’re—”

“You don’t get to choose the place, nor the time. We already agreed you do what I want. This is what I want.” 

If someone finds them here, they’re both as good as dead. There’s no need to say it out loud; Donghyuck knows, he knows and his face is telling Jeno the risk is barely a stimulant, heavy in consequence but weightless on his mind. What a brilliant disciple the Arch-Mage has. 

Jeno steels himself as Donghyuck escorts his touch further down his thighs. All of a sudden, the Bosmer erupts with soft laughter.

“What?”

“You’re weird. You’re really weird,” Donghyuck says. “You won’t shake hands with a half-breed, but you’re willing to fuck one.” 

Willing isn’t exactly the right word, but Jeno will refrain from fruitless correcting. “Is that what this is all about?”

“Maybe.”

“First a coward, then a cheat, and now a pervert.” 

“Sounds about right. You’re a threat to society. Who’s going to save the world from a dangerous Altmer if not me?” Donghyuck bats his eyelashes innocently. Jeno draws a sharp control breath. The boy is then cocking his head upwards, a delicate motion. “Stand up,” he instructs.

Jeno does as told. _He’ll continue to do as told for now. Every word Donghyuck allows to escape his lips, every daring request of his is a chunk of dirt taken out from his own grave which he is so foolishly determined to keep on digging._

His hands are then guided to the buttons of the collar of Donghyuck’s white, puffy-sleeved shirt. Jeno doesn’t need further instructions here, and he unbuttons the raised collar at a slow pace like it’s a punishment — it might be agonising to Donghyuck, but it’s even more so to him. He’s only able to get to chest level when the blood in his labouring fingers freezes. 

A golden chain ornaments Donghyuck’s throat. A jade-green pendant. An electric firefly.

“Put it on just for you,” the devil speaks, sweet-voiced, smiley.

Jeno has to twist his head sideways for a second if he doesn’t want to explode. He has no right to explode or show anger. They’re both dirty-handed thieves, they’re equal in the eyes of purity. 

Yet. How dare. _How dare._ How dare he...

A gentle hold of his chin brings his attention back to the outlaw in front of him; it burns. 

The boy props himself on top of the table, properly this time, and he wilts against it. It’s no longer a teasing foretaste; the gates of Donghyuck’s hell are now open, inviting him inside. He’s finally towering over the Bosmer, a faint sense of power revisiting his tortured authority, but he’s not _above_ him. He’s not above the god ruling the inferno. 

“Touch me,” comes the whisper of the scorching flame.

And Jeno has no other choice but to bow to the order, worship the hellish heat with his hands. He’s blindly following Donghyuck past the gates and into the depths where the star of Azura won’t ever find him again. Donghyuck is his divine providence now. His only belief.

He peels off Donghyuck’s bottoms that confine the wildfire. The boy’s thighs are painted in different colors just like the skin of his hands, and they wrap around Jeno’s hips; a trap he has knowingly walked into. Jeno wants to know, he wants to see how far the pale stretches; the private land he was never supposed to wander. His unattended fingers lift the hem of Donghyuck’s shirt. The lower half of the elf’s stomach is a warzone, he finds out immediately, a battle between the same human albino and elven bronze. A stray pale patch hangs just below the belly button. And Jeno has been ignoring it the entire duration of his journey across the land that is Donghyuck’s skin: there’s the boy’s cock too, flushing against the polycolor backdrop, erect, and his plush thighs fill Jeno’s claws. 

And Jeno might hate Donghyuck. Not might – he hates him. But he’s a mortal, and mortals have weaknesses. Mortals have instincts that are there to compensate. It’s extremely unfair how his body betrays him; within a black spark is born, begetting desire. 

Gods, too, have weaknesses. Donghyuck proves it to him when his whisper desperately seeks to caress Jeno’s conscience.

“Make love to me,” he says.

Jeno follows the order, a faithful devotee. A prophet Donghyuck has chosen for his mission. 

The courage on the Bosmer’s face is wiped clean when, slow and steady, Jeno enters him. His lips stained a sinful crimson – lips that kissed him beneath the white of Winterhold – part as they plead for air, but not for mercy. His pupils, polished with lust, dilate. And lastly, his brows bump together, protesting against the pain.

_No._ This sacrilegious sight is a forbidden fruit. It’s not meant for Jeno’s eyes, and it’d be a disaster was it to hammer a memory in his mind. He must look away before it’s too late.

And so Jeno’s faded stare finds refuge in the magical garden nestling in front of him. He starts moving once it feels appropriate, rocking against the boy like a tidal wave, all the while the view of dancing little lights, flowers and other greenery lets him believe it’s all a fantasy, a drunken dream. 

Like a whiplash of the morning brutally stripping him off of his dreams, a slight pressure presses against the side of his neck. 

“Look at me,” Donghyuck says.

His gaze dips. The Bosmer’s forehead is puckered; he’s clearly displeased, and there’s something he’s pointing against his skin. It’s thin – must be a blade. Jeno reaches for it, but Donghyuck only presses further.

“I didn’t say you could touch it.”

Even if he’s not making direct contact with it, his fingers detect the magical energy the weapon emits. Jeno’s curious, but he lowers his eager to probe hand. Donghyuck holds the blade in place as the Altmer goes into action again, forcing him to watch his pleasure filled expression, and hear his pain driven moans. 

Once satisfied, the boy presents him with the sight of the blade. It’s a dagger, an unusual looking one: single-edged, thin, and black like coal. It exhibits a peculiar curve, like a viper frozen in motion.

“It’s called the Blade of Sacrifice.”

Jeno loses his pace. “Where’d you get this?”

“Yukhei and I found it in the caves. It’s magical. Now I only need to find a way to enchant it, and then the warrant is mine,” Donghyuck purrs. “You’ve lost, Jeno. You’ve lost and I’ve won, and now you’re fucking me and obeying my word. How does it feel. Tell me, how does it feel to be defeated by a Bosmer? To be humiliated?”

It’s done. It’s finished. The deep pit of the grave is now awaiting the closing touch, the remaining component: Donghyuck. And Jeno is more than ready to shove him inside, to draw the curtains on this farce of a play. It’s his turn to be entertained.

“You want me to tell you?” he hisses, voice already trembling with how offended he is, unstable. “How about I show you instead?” 

Right after he says it, Jeno slams into Donghyuck unannounced, eliciting a wail from him that dangerously rings in the airy space. An unforgiving pace follows, causing the dagger to slip out of the boy’s possession and it falls to the ground; a metallic _clink._ Once robbed of his weapon, he claps his hands onto the edge of the desk for hasty support. 

_It won’t save you_ , Jeno thinks midst his frenzy of ballistic rage. _You’ve caused this, now endure it._

And Donghyuck cries, oh, he cries, and his head flails to either side unceasingly. In a trice, Jeno decides he doesn’t want to see the Bosmer’s face anymore, not after it was pinched into an expression so smug and trumphant. He manhandles the boy on his stomach, pins his head down and rams back in.

_Sing to me._

And Donghyuck does. He sings a song of pain, of drowned out sexual gratification. Jeno needs the boy to sing to him, because he can’t hear himself through the loudness of his own hurt. His blood is boiling, his vision is blurry, and there’s only one thing he knows for certain right now – Donghyuck must sing in an archaic language known to nobody but him, a language of forgotten gods, of words locked in stone walls inside deserted shrines. And this thunderous sound of bare skin slapping together will be the drums accompanying Donghyuck’s angelic voice. 

Unresolved tension, was it? 

This is the closest he’s gotten to understanding the Bosmer. The exasperation which without exception has been building up every time their paths crossed is now exiting Jeno through every thrust. 

_Harsher. The harsher the punishment, the longer-lasting the after-effect._

But harsh, fast and dry expedite the culmination. Jeno groans as he achieves an orgasm, spilling while still inside the heat of Donghyuck’s body. He collects himself when clarity pays a visit, and then he’s grabbing the twitching, sniffling boy by the neck, pulling him up against his chest. 

What a sight, what a view. Teary eyes stare back weakly. Donghyuck looks broken, shattered, he’s ruins of the sung temples, and Jeno – his current lifeline, the last standing pillar – holds him by his throat, but not for long. The grip loosens; Donghyuck implodes upon release, his wobbly legs failing him.

This is how it should be. The Bosmer should crawl at the feet of the Altmer. Donghyuck raises his head from where he’s collapsed on the ground pathetically. He was once a pirate, proud and sailing the seas that make up Jeno, but now he’s a shipwreck. A shipwreck previously carrying valuables, all sorts of precious metals and jewels, and now there’s a single jade dangling from Donghyuck’s neck within the bay of his open shirt. 

Jeno tucks himself in, straightens his garbs until they pass as presentable, all the while maintaining strictly cold, unrelenting eye-contact with the boy.

“Wait!” the shaken call chimes. “Where are you going? I didn’t come yet.”

Donghyuck wanted to know what it’s like to be humiliated. Jeno will show him humiliating.

“That wasn’t part of the deal, sunshine.”

Jeno doesn’t falter as he leaves the Arch-Mage’s quarters along with a wronged Donghyuck. _Because he hates breaking the promises he’s made to himself the most, and if on that eventful evening inside the shutdown Arcane University he swore to wrong the Bosmer, he’ll hold to it._

Ultimetly, Donghyuck will be the death of him.

_"You are the cold inescapable proof_   
_You’re the evil, the way in the life, and the truth_   
_You’re revival beginning and you’re genocide_   
_And I watch in wonder"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, am i talking to the person who ordered some hate sex 70k into the story? no? well, you're receiving it anyway.
> 
> it's 3 am as i'm publishing this;;; the things i do in the name of love and stupidity
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc in case you want to scream at me. do scream at me, i could use a fix.


	10. In Sleep He Sang to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter, but i achieved everything i wanted.

Donghyuck will be the death of him, is what Jeno concludes while on the train to Hammerfell, a province southwest of Skyrim, the homeland of the Redguards. 

With nothing else to do, he can only detail each mistake he had made that night. There are many things he shouldn’t have done aside from carrying out the perilous plan. Firstly, he should’ve been more careful; should’ve silenced Donghyuck’s full-throated song. 

Leaving Donghyuck alone in there marks his second mistake. Not because he’s suddenly feeling bad that he did – _Donghyuck had what was coming for him_ – but what if someone would’ve found him stripped bare and violated. Knowing his loose, laced with poison tongue, he could’ve lied that Jeno did the unspeakable to him. No defense would have mattered then, not when he had the incriminating book on him.

But the night ended unceremoniously. It ended with the Altmer frantically jotting down the words back in his own room, copying god knows what – names, titles, locations – his disorderly head registered none of it. All that was present inside were not coherent thoughts, but raw emotions. It had felt so good, seeing ruin on Donghyuck’s face as he fled the scene. It was cold revenge for his trampled dignity, his stolen nobility, and his alleged loss. And yet, the cold of it eventually reached him too, and it suddenly lost its initial appeal. Having stepped out of hell and into the freezing solitude of his gloomy room, Jeno could feel hoarfrost slowly overspreading his skin, and the brute inside withdrew.

When Jeno eventually returned to the crime scene to tamper with the evidence, there was no trace of Donghyuck, no echo of his song, no proof of _tonight._ The phantom had vanished as quickly as it had appeared. 

There’s another mistake, the third one, not as important as the rest. The necklace. Jeno should’ve taken it back the moment Donghyuck’s throat flaunted the delicate chain. Now, there is no point in retrieving it. What would he do with the jade that witnessed his depravity – not gift it to his mother, that’s for sure. 

And so Jeno thinks about everything but the Blade of Sacrifice. He can postpone worrying to when he reviews the hopefully intelligible replica of the Arch-Mage’s records. Everything except the Blade of Sacrifice, and two warm honey, polycolored thighs. 

* * *

Alinor, the capital of Summerset Isles. The seat of High Elven civilization found on the river highlands of the Oleander Coast. The city of glass, of never setting sun, Ravaena’s home, and finally, his mother’s second place of residence. 

These reflective walls of their manor are foreign to Jeno, the unexplored spaces unmarked by childish mischief. However, there will come a day when he has to acquaint with these rooms. After the three years of College end, he’ll attend a university here, in Alinor. Research papers and specialized literature will then replace spell tomes, and the child in Jeno who had wished for dragons to return to life sighs at the thought defeatedly; a downgrade. But not the current Jeno. He’s… indifferent about the impending change. 

His mother isn’t home, dooming him to find a way he could busy himself. Perhaps he should’ve tagged along with Renjun, experienced what High Rock is all about, or leastways asked for his address so he could visit. The current situation promises a month of freeloading, and a cycle of repeated days where he’ll admire the warmth of Summerset winters despite having lived here for twenty years. There’s always the option of turning to social affairs, and whenever the need presses, Jeno is a great introvert in social butterfly’s clothing.

 _Ding!_ An idea. 

Why not enter his father’s old study? The perfect place to finally dig into his notes and be surprised at how bad his hurried handwriting is. Or, contrariwise, be surprised at how _readable_ it is.

Jeno stands in the doorway upon opening the door, looks around the empty room. His brain deludes him into detecting a different energy, the same way all rooms that once belonged to the deceased are automatically mystical, memories of the past suspended midair. Coming through the window wall in the back, the blades of light cut through the dust floating around, adding to the illusion.

He steps inside, eyes raking the moderately furnished study, the shelves outlining the walls. Positioned in front of a lovely view, there stands the desk. Jeno brushes his fingertips on the marble surface, but the sparse amount of dust particles sticking to them tells him this room isn't neglected by the maid.

 _A green winter, how odd. So different from Winterhold; wherever your eyes land_ , _it's snowy white._

Ah, here he's gazing out the window, amazed by it again. _Dear motherland, how many times will you trick me into admiring your beauty before you're satisfied?_

He settles his father's chair. The time has come, and so he lets his fingers _wander._

Locations, many locations: towns, caves, mines, ruins, tombs, temples. Descriptions of said locations, and creatures that roam them. There's mentions of magical loot, of items and weapons possessing either epic sounding or hair-raising names. Vague recollections come to him as he reads the panicked words he had written down.

And there it is, the Blade of Sacrifice inscribed in thick, angry lines. _The Blade of Sacrifice is a ceremonial ebony dagger. If used alongside the Soul Trap spell, it can absorb the victim's soul and, as a result, be charged in magical energy._

Donghyuck must've 'borrowed' the Arch-Mage's records himself, and discovered the existence of the blade – discovered the path to the warrant. Jeno can't say he's surprised, yet he's not sure what the Bosmer is thinking. Quite a grim choice, and it'd be hard to enchant it without using vile methods.

Apart from that big question mark, it certainly is one of the more impressive, extraordinary findings, and if Donghyuck successfully realizes his plan... It's a risk, a risk that leaves no room for mistakes, and grants Jeno a formidable chance. A game of uncertainty, of leveled odds.

Jeno sneers. _Of course_ . All of the remaining options are lesser, but more reliable. No matter what he goes for, Donghyuck will keep him on the edge of his seat; the constant question of _'will the Bosmer manage to enchant the dagger and secure the warrant'_ will prow Jeno day and night. Hell, he wouldn't be at all shocked if Donghyuck had _wanted_ him to obtain the book and read it for himself, find out about the potential and power locked in the dagger.

And the victory speech? A bluff? A masquerade arranged to instigate a bloodbath? Donghyuck doesn’t want an easy win. He’s asking for a slow, swaying dance – everlasting footwork, hands clasped together as they fight for who gets to lead it, fierce eyes communicating through the music of this ball called life. And they will dance long after the guests have scattered, and the violins have ceased. They’ll dance until one of them drops dead from exhaustion, and the other is crowned with thorns.

Jeno throws his head back; the book meets the desktop with force as he slaps it on top.

_Donghyuck has gotten so good at making him mad that there is no need for his physical form to peeve Jeno; a thought is enough. So, so good, Jeno’s personal hell._

For now he can pretend it doesn’t concern him; there is no rush, only a month full of opportunities for decision making. And he would prefer to discuss the available options with Ravaena either way.

Jeno is such a skilled pretender that it would be a shame not to showcase his talents. He had once convinced himself his anger was justifiable. He dismissed the signs and ignored Donghyuck’s intentions because it was highly unconventional. Currently, he’s pretending Ravaena’s standpoint doesn’t deviate from his. In the end, it’s always himself that he plays.

There’s a small brass casket sitting on one of the shelves, and it garners his interest until he’s standing up and bringing it to the desk for inspection. A lock threatens to keep him at bay, but fortunate for him it isn’t fastened. 

A pile of letters awaits him inside. Jeno takes the stash and goes through each envelope, eyes cataloging the names and addresses. One in particular lingers in his mind – it was stamped with an emblem, one Jeno recognizes but is unsure from where – and so he puts the rest aside and takes the folded note out.

He strokes an imaginary beard, his curiosity gradually going rancid with every word he’s reading.

It’s a response letter from a man by the name of Halldormo Jorbinder, and from the context clues Jeno has picked up that he’s a member of a clandestine organization, the Silver Order. The symbol is a silver sun, which resembles a metal wheel on flames, and it casts shadows of shelter upon like-minded Altmers; _they’re the only perfect race, the pinnacle of existence. Over hundreds of generations they have bred themselves into a racially pure line, and breeding outside of it is a terrible, unthinkable crime. Those who attempt to taint their blood should be exiled to the mainland, a punishment equivalent to a death sentence, since there is no purpose in living outside their ideal society._

The order, although accommodating a significant number of sympathizers, is still a low-key organization, and to receive a letter stamped with the silver sun you must first earn their trust.

 _The Altmer shall rise again one day,_ the memory of his father speaks to him. 

And Jeno was young, far too young to understand back then. He’s now recalling rooms his father had taken him to, the men who had congratulated him for being a fine young fellow, promising him a bright future – the emblem flashes in his memory. _Oh, if only they had known how bright his future would be. Though Jeno is sure his lapse of control would be met with empathy._

Jeno bears a resemblance to his mother, yet he was always compared to his father; _you’re just like him,_ are the congratulating words he’d often hear, uttered by a different face each time. 

He skims through the other letters, one more harrowing than the other. There is no doubt his mother has read these before. Jeno stows them back into the box.

(...)

“Young Master Joroth! Are you cold? Perchance feeling sick?” distressed, their maidservant asks when, upon entering the living room, she finds Jeno watching the fireplace he had awakened during this particularly warm evening.

“I’m better than ever, worry not,” he assures. 

Inside the hearth, he watches the letters tainting his father’s memory turn to ash. It’s just as if they had never even existed.

(...)

Nightmares, torturous and graphic, return. They shake Jeno awake into a sitting position; they set his body on fire. 

Their essence is different this time, however. Nightmares of different colors and hues, newfangled suffering.

And Jeno can’t even begin to admit what he saw in the haze of the dream, not out loud, not inwardly. An unwanted heat burns low inside of him; _he’s awake, he’s alive, and he’s craving…_

_And this devilish heat is ablaze, its whispers drip ice, it’s pulsating, it’s raw…_

_An inhuman voice gurgles in his subconscious, and it’s oddly similar to his..._

Jeno shuts his eyes, covers his ears, barricades the path to his soul – he ignores the addictive call of sin, the taut expectancy of his body.

He ignores the faint touch of the phantom against his skin. 

* * *

A few days later he walks in on his mother dozing on the swing seat in their terrace. Jeno is ready to leave her to her much needed rest, but then her eyes flutter open and her lips crack into a smile as she perceives her youngest son. 

Beneath her untouchable exterior – perfect Altmeri visage and aristocratic aroma – she’s warm, tender, her disposition ever so sunny. 

“Come,” she encourages, and her dainty hand like a feather lands on the empty space beside her.

Jeno is a breath away from protesting, but nevermind that – how could he ever say no to her? The swing rocks gently like a cradle, and the zephyr substitutes a motherly lullaby.

“Something’s eating at my son.”

The corners of his mouth lift up. “It’s that obvious, isn’t it?”

“Oh, _yes._ You’ve been brooding for a couple evenings now.”

Indeed he was, and he could feel his unrest rubbing off on the furniture. 

“There are a few things,” Jeno admits, and it only takes him a lifetime disguised as a moment to start speaking again. “I am… conflicted. I always thought Ravaena and I saw eye to eye. But lately I’ve been witnessing doubts surface. I am not sure how to feel. Am I correct for doubting a friend?”

His mother’s eyes caress his profile, and he meets them to find curiosity dwelling inside. Curiosity tinged with something else.

“I have a story to tell. Would you mind?” she asks.

“I’d love to hear it.”

Taalia Lorathael looks ahead of her, at the setting winter sun and mauve blossoms.

“Moliss Grayore, Ravaena’s father, and I grew up together. He’s from Auridon, the same town as me, and having been the only two children with noble backgrounds it was natural our parents had inculcated us to gravitate toward each other. Moliss was—he was quite scholarly and nerdish, and his deep interest in magic was entirely new to me. It had confused me greatly, but I was also a very stubborn young lady and insisted on him introducing me to that, as he had then called it, _unfit for girls world._ You could say it only kindled my little rebellious fire,” nostalgia deputizes her for a moment.

“Before I knew it, his passion was passed on to me, and we became two friends dreaming of magic—dreaming big. I started researching on my own initiative. As I matured, so did everything else about me; my dreams were no exception. I took a great interest in Restoration that had been previously mainly used by priests, and wasn’t considered the most valid or credible among scholarly mages. Men had openly detested magic in the old days, but those practicing Restoration were often given some leeway.

Thereby bringing Restoration back had seemed the most cogent case. But then I embarked on my first year of College and discovered the beauty of this school of magic. It wasn’t just vapid closing of wounds and cracked bones. You’re essentially giving another person a piece of yourself. It’s a selfless sacrifice. 

Unfortunately, this discovery of mine was one-sided. Ravaena’s father expressed opinions that were ill-matched to mine. We drifted. Now we’re working together, still toward the same goal, but we’re distant. And now our children are following our footsteps, and they’re repeating our mistakes.”

Her hand comes to stroke Jeno’s face gently; his jaw, his ear. “I don’t want you to repeat them. I want my son to be stubborn and fight for his loved ones. Your mother tried. But I didn’t try hard enough, and I rue the day I gave up. Whatever it is, if in your heart you feel it’s the wrong course of action to take, tell her. Allow your feelings be known.”

Jeno retracts her loving touch, places her hand in his lap. “I will bear your advice in mind, mother. Thank you.” 

Her fingers squeeze around his.

“You’re just like–”

“My father?” Jeno predicts.

“No, like me. You’re just like me, my boy. Oh, goodness, your father,” she exaggerates a sigh. It’s comic. “He was even more stubborn than I was; we were two bloody-minded mules. Thinking I can change someone is another flaw of mine. Until we learned to work around each other, we would clash severely. But I’ve always been welcoming of challenges. Let’s hope you don’t take after me in that regard.” 

“Does that mean you hated him before you loved him?”

“Hate is too strong of a word. But let me tell you the ultimate truth: there is only one step between love and hate.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything to this. In a perfect romantic’s world, perhaps that is the governing rule. To him, however, it’s a silly fantasy, a reverie without conclusion. Hate is hate. It will never be more, it will never be less, and it will certainly never be love.

 _There is but one step between hate and lust._ _But one step separating the sin and the sinner who is willing. In a perfect outlaw’s world, lust overcomes hatred, and they only ever speak in tongues._

“If I recall correctly, you said there were a few things harassing your mind,” his mother’s sweet prodding interjects.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose the rest,” he says honestly. “Maybe someday.”

And the evening bleeds gold – his heart bleeds a soft rosy red in the presence of his beloved mother. Inside, Jeno fears for another sleepless night in burning sheets. A recurring deathless death. 

* * *

Cold sweat like ice drips down Jeno’s neck; the last crumbs of sanity.

Tonight’s visions were phenomenally vivid, evocative. Graphic.

The blood that would appear in the haunting nightmares has run dry; there’s only rivers of liquid gold, liquid bronze – too thick to swim in freely, and they leave his body glistening beneath the pale moon. When there’s another body trapped under his, his fists no longer plunge forward; they tear into soft flesh with the intention of conquering the land he had roved that night. If the disembodied voice had wanted him to kill, it now wants Jeno to devour.

The greater the struggle, the worse the aftermath. Before he can lose his mind, Jeno has to accept the one tormenting him. He has to say his name.

_Donghyuck._

Not enough. It’s still there, the temptation. It’s still holding him captive.

_Donghyuck, Donghyuck, Donghyuck._

Jeno must breathe now. He must breathe and think of something else. Of _someone_ else.

Maidens. Fair Altmeri maidens – blonde unruly curls and sun-kissed cheeks. Sweet, floral perfume and polite titters. Language of shy, averted eyes.

Jeno’s hand travels down his aching body.

Skirts and dresses. Modest displays of skin teasing discreet stares. Slender legs. Coy smiles–

_The boy had hoped for tonight. Does that mean inappropriate thoughts were a regular visitor? When the lonely of the night crawled up, did he fondle himself to the thought of Jeno, the same way he, right now, is simulating the fervent heat of Donghyuck?_

No, no, no. Pretty maidens, not Donghyuck-

_Did the boy’s hands wander as he pretended they belonged to Jeno? Did he gasp softly every time they kneaded?_

Jeno’s hand stops mid-stroke. His eyebrows furrow. Just what exactly is he thinking, hankering after the Bosmer?

_But the more he struggles, the worse it gets._

Irritated, Jeno surrenders. He submits. There is no giving this up. There is no walking out of this alive. The thoughts of Donghyuck, of his body – lewd erotica. Jeno – a guilty consumer.

But can lust really overpower hate? What kind of deprived individual would trade in their pride and decorum for a few minutes in heaven? 

_Ah, ah, ah, the fallen angel had cried under him. Again, again, and again did Jeno ruthlessly pound into him._

No, the question is flawed. The question is unnecessary. Outlaws would kill their way to heaven, and Jeno, the worst of them all, has seen hell.

The memory of Donghyuck’s song guides him to a climax. He’s officially lost his mind. A total madman.

_How twisted do you have to be to put this curse on me? A single taste has me chasing after. Are you the antidote, or are you the poison? Pray tell me, are you both?_

* * *

A low note resonates for five seconds. A mellow melody follows right after, blurring the restrained chatter; blurring his edges.

Ravaena saved him from the torturous groove he had developed by inviting him to her father’s manor. Apparently, it’s not an ordinary day. An exclusive list of guests has gathered, and now they’re all lounging in the main hall, listening to the metallic strumming. At the centre of it all there’s a woman, and there’s a harp. Her appearance is little short of a fairytale, her hands – brilliant. With every painstaking touch she draws out the most beautiful sounds out of the instrument. 

And so Jeno listens, allows himself to be mesmerized by her skill. He never really cared for music; he never cared for others’ songs, would it be ballads or cicadas. Things change with time. _Things change when you’re forced to listen._

Sometimes his eyes drift to the other guests. They’re not really listening, and if they are, it’s perfunctory.

Ravaena’s father is surrounded by other Altmeri nobility. He had greeted Jeno earlier, formal and straightforward – Jeno is sure it would be impossible to catch the man sparing an excessive word. Faithfully reserved, Moliss Grayore still manages to put him in a state of confusion. Lady Grayore is at least consistent with how she feels about him, or it’d be more appropriate to say her attitude doesn’t waver as much. Her husband, however... It’s either Jeno feels strange, silent approbation or near animosity. After hearing about his past with Jeno’s mother, he can imagine the man is, in some way, projecting on to her son.

Sometimes, across the room, he discovers he’s capturing another’s attention. Caria Sillonire. Ravaena’s roommate.

She’s looking at him right now. And her gaze is open – perhaps for the first time tonight – and meant to expose her. It was shy back in the College, and it is shy right now, but the girl herself is brave and she lets him know. If only she wasn’t Ravaena’s friend.

And then Raven appears in his vision, black feathers and light-footed steps. She had put Jeno’s story on halt to speak to her father. 

“Where were we?” she asks, and the nimble fingers gliding across the strings intrude. The melody decays.

“The Arch-Mage’s office,” he reminds concisely.

Ravaena wears surprise on her face as her brow creases for the second time. “You really outdid yourself this time. What prompted my dear friend to act so reckless?”

They’re standing by the stairs. Jeno glances behind him to check for any unwelcome surprises. For any listening ears. “Donghyuck did some searching around the caves, too. He found the Blade of Sacrifice.”

Ravaena’s pleasantly amused demeanor congeals before melting into puzzlement. “Blade of Sacrifice?”

“It’s a magical weapon. He’s now looking for a way to enchant it. I’m afraid it’s over for me when he does.”

“If he does,” Ravaena corrects curtly. “I did not expect the half-breed to reach that far. Still…” Her gaze is lost somewhere on the marble floor. “To know you’re going to such lengths because of him. What happened to ignoring him?”

“It’s no longer an option.”

“Joroth, this is dangerous–”

“It was. It was dangerous. I should’ve listened to you. But like you once told me, he’s not a threat. Not anymore, at least. He will no longer bother me – I made sure of that. Now all I have to do is perform well and obtain at least one of the items catalogued in the Arch-Mage’s records.”

_Except the boy is bothering him, in ways Jeno could never confess._

Her partly inexpressive face betrays suspicion. “I trust you to stay away. I don’t trust him to do the same. I’m sure you know it’s best our kind doesn’t let the Bosmer come near. Especially someone like Donghyuck. I’m delighted to see you’re serious about the warrant, but… first the familiar hunt, now this. You’re losing yourself in the midst of this unnecessary battle. And… I’m not sensing any regret or retaliation. I’m concerned for you.”

Regret? Retaliation? He had regretted and retaliated to the point of queasiness, and it doesn’t show up on his sickly pale face anymore; he has surrendered. After two weeks of constant battling against the phantom of the night she should be concerned for his sanity, if anything. 

_How near is too near? Ten miles? Ten steps? The distance between two faces drawing closer? The combined warmth of two bodies? Right now, being provinces and seas away is too near for Jeno._

His eyes find the delicate wallflower – Ravaena’s roommate.

“I must go now,” she sighs. The topic is dropped at once. “Apparently my father’s sister is showing up in a little while. I must attend to her and be her entertainment. I know I invited you here, and I am now abandoning you. I hope you can forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jeno responds almost immediately, and Ravaena manages a weak smile. She leaves.

He never cared for flowers, would it be lilac or proscato. But he’s set his sights on one tonight.

And so Jeno makes his way through the flower field — so many colors, so many fragrances — only to approach the most petite, exquisite one. The pearly white blossom that has been turning to him this entire evening.

“You’ve come at last,” her lips tease to show a kind smile as she holds out her hand. So she really is brave – Jeno suspected as much. 

_Coy smiles._

“Were you expecting me, miss…?” He takes the offered hand.

“Caria. Call me Caria, please.”

Jeno is about to place a polite kiss against the back of her hand when he catches a whiff of daisies dusting her skin.

_Floral perfume._

“I am most intrigued by the youngest son of the Lorathaels,” she gives away without even slight hesitation, but when Jeno lets go of her hand and his undivided attention is pinned on her, her reserve falters.

_Language of averted eyes._

“And I am most ashamed to announce I have yet to find out who you are, Miss Caria. Ravaena’s cherished acquaintance?” he guesses.

The girl shakes her head, inclines it slightly as her gaze points to something behind Jeno. “The elf on Mr. Grayore’s left would be my father. He’s a known artisan here in the main isle. A tailor. Mr. Grayore and a handful of other guests here use his services. I do, too.”

Jeno’s head pivots on his neck. Indeed there is an elf.

“And I assume he had brought you here to rub shoulders with the nobility?” 

The question elicits a light laugh. 

_Polite titters._

“For the most part. Whereas I myself had wished to meet you the most.”

“Is that so?”

_She’s Ravaena’s roommate. She’s out of bounds. And Jeno isn’t even sure what he wants. However. A fair Altmeri maiden – blonde unruly curls and sun-kissed cheeks. His sanity is bending at the knees, begging._

“Say, would you mind… showing me your father’s work up-close?” is what Jeno ends up asking – suggesting.

The harp resonates for the last time, the piece ending in a beautiful glissando.

(...)

Never would have Jeno thought he’d be using Ravaena’s guest rooms for anything but innocent sojourn.

What he’s doing right now is oceans from innocent: eager hands striping off layers of expensive fabric – the craftsmanship is overlooked in the end. The burning touch of his lips brand her skin, though he doesn’t dare go past the threshold that are her collarbones, even when she wordlessly implies he’s allowed to.

Once he’s inside, it’s gentle. It’s unrushed. Her blonde locks like wheat are strewn on the white bedding, and her measured moans are the Altmeri whispers he had heard back in Auridon. It’s how lovers move – tender, intimate.

And so it’s gentle, because the girl under him is.

It’s gente until it isn’t. His pace is gingerly, but then the polite warmth is not enough and it’s the hellish heat that he’s craving.

He’s not dreaming, so why? Why is he thinking of _him_ now?

Why is he thinking of Donghyuck whilst inside of a ravishing maiden? She’s taken straight out of Jeno’s incorrupt teenage daydreams and earthy fantasies, flawless. And yet, here he is, blind to all that grace shining before his eyes.

“Joroth,” her hand suddenly comes in contact with his face. “Is everything okay? Did I do something?”

“No, no,” he quickly dismisses, his senses coming back to him. “Why would you think that?”

“You seemed angry a second ago, and you’re gripping me painfully.”

“I’m just a little distracted, forgive me. You’re perfect, Miss Caria. You have nothing to worry about.”

It’s gentle, once again. Jeno makes sure it is, even if the image of two golden thighs never fully leaves his imagination.

(...)

He’s standing on the balcony, gazing at the crystal skyline of the city. Behind him, the sheer curtains flutter, hiding the sight of the girl who’s sleeping peacefully.

Jeno tightens his grip on the balustrade.

_What am I doing? Did I just use this poor girl who was clearly interested in and enthralled by me, and therefore incapable of making the right judgment, to quench my dishonorable desire?_

Maybe he is as bad as Donghyuck had preached. 

_Sorry, Ravaena. I can’t ignore it. I can’t stay away. And your concern will go to waste..._

In Winterhold, wrapped in a thick blanket of snowy storms, there lies a familiar heat. Jeno must return, accept the call of the flame. Even if he doesn’t know what it is he wants to do, or if the cure is really there, he must go before insanity consumes him.

He must go before the song ends, only to never resound again.

_"I have brought you to the seat of sweet music's throne_

_To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music_

_You have come here for one purpose and one alone_

_Since the moment I first heard you sing_

_I have needed you with me to serve me, to sing"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has now turned into erotica, i'm very aware. my apologies? you're welcome? jeno's anger is morphing into lust. isn't that a sight to behold? but how will that work when the one he's lusting after is the one he has to defeat? and when it's none other than donghyuck? so many questions...
> 
> i was midway into the chapter when i realized it reminds me of [the phantom of the opera](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DvVAsGdnBQ) and that's the inspiration behind the chapter title, as well as the quote at the end.
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc, as always.


	11. It's Not Forgiveness That I Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my first beta’d chaptered. i have already thanked the beta, but thank you, again, for reading through 80k words ;; you're amazing, and i'll be spending my weekend editing the previous chapters.
> 
> i also want to thank my buddy ash who listens to me talk about this fic, and i should probably assassinate them, because they know /too much/ about the characters, especially donghyuck.
> 
> hope you enjoy the update. see you on the other side :}

Halfway through the break, Jeno returns to Winterhold.

A heavenly sight it is, the swirling currents of snow, the blizzards – his mother was right suggesting him to stay and witness the barren grandeur of the cold season. But it was not the scary beauty of nature that had him stuffing his belongings back into the suitcase and boarding the proximate ship to the mainland.

He spends his first two days submerged in thought, unsure of how to proceed. This is what he wanted, right? To return. So where does he go from here?

He spends the first two minutes in front of Renjun’s sleeping quarters, unsure whether or not he should let his presence be revealed. This is what he needed, correct? To stand in front of that which persecutes him; to face his foe. Perhaps this is the destined battle, the face-off of two enemies that Donghyuck had read to him back then. Except the story is their own, and the weapons they use are deadlier.

Jeno knocks against the wood and his heart simultaneously.

At first, there’s nothing but serene noise greeting him – maybe there’s no one there. _He silently hopes for the worst. For the best. The absence of the Bosmer would be both._

But then the door flings open, and on the other side of it there stands Donghyuck. His eyes widen before he can slip on the mask of nonchalance – and he does it swiftly.

“Renjun isn’t here.”

So he’s real – the boy is real, his sing-song voice present, his warmth tangible. He’s not just a fragment of Jeno’s imagination.

“I know,” Jeno says drily. “I’m here to retrieve the sword I once gave to him.”

Donghyuck appears to balk at the idea of letting the Altmer in, but then he’s moving aside, his hand still gripping the edge of the door. His gaze is fixated on the floor when Jeno moves past him, and his countenance doesn’t let on a single hint of what sort of winds blow in his mind.

Jeno had once promised himself not to enter this room again, not for Renjun and certainly not for anyone else. Now, his pretense of why he’s here is currently lazing in High Rock, and Jeno’s steps are as willing as could be. The hunter’s lair hasn’t changed since he last laid his inspective eyes upon it, and so he goes straight for the sheathed silver blade that’s propped against Renjun’s bed. He takes it. There’s no reason for him to stay here any longer; there's no pretext keeping him inside. 

When he turns around, he finds that Donghyuck is no longer interested in the floor and is looking at him instead. There's something sizzling in the air, something that demands recognition. They're both playing pretend: they're the same as before, they've never shared their warmth, and Jeno has never defiled him. But Donghyuck looks like he's on the verge of dropping the act.

“You’re not going to train in this weather, are you? Why take the sword now?” he starts, and Jeno stops just before he can exit the room. Donghyuck's stare is digging into his now. “Are you sure that’s what you came here for?”

The question tugs on his strings like he’s a puppet, the force driving him forward – he’s taking a daring step that closes the extra space between them. Donghyuck’s head twists sideways, eluding the approach full of intention, and Jeno is fated to stare down the Bosmer’s neck, his nose a hair short from burying into his skin. Donghyuck swallows.

“I take the promises I make very seriously,” he whispers, lips quivering. “I’ll be dealt with if I break this one.”

Jeno sips the rejection straight from its source. Donghyuck might be refusing him, but his body backstabs him and signals otherwise – his pulse rate increases, and his breaths are shallow. Still, Jeno straightens up. “Right.”

And so he walks out of the room with his head held high as though he didn't just attempt to kiss the Bosmer and was brutally rejected with his own words used against him, no less.

The boy's voice bids him a delayed farewell. "I'll be in Frozen Hearth tonight. Thought you should know," he adds when Jeno levels him with a nettled look.

His first ever taste of corporeal rejection, and it only cost him his dignity, his undisturbed sleep, the time he could’ve spent back home. It only came at the expense of his sanity. 

Jeno walks away with his pride bearing severe injuries, knowing very well he’ll be coming back to embrace the flame like the madman he’s become. _There is no giving this up._

* * *

Out of all the unimaginable scenarios, Jeno never thought that he'd chance upon daisies blooming in the snow, the delicate petals rivaling the intricate beauty of flakes. That night, when he follows after the nocturnal serenade Donghyuck had promised – no, he never swore to sing to him again, but Jeno is still stubbornly hopeful – he runs into Caria.

"Joroth," she strips him off the carefree hum that celebrates the day, the sense of reality where actions have consequences curling its chains around his ankles, grounding him.

"What are you doing here?" the staggered response comes; it must sound cheerful to her ears. "Shouldn't you be in Summerset?"

"Yes, but..." a shy smile, then: "I heard the winters here are beautiful. And I heard you had decided to return early.”

Oh, the cool walls of Summerset – they listen, they talk. Jeno should be ecstatic the floral fragrance has stuck to him, following him all the way to the unfragrant Winterhold, curtailing his homesickness. But he’s unworthy. And this girl, this pretty maiden who is expecting of him – Jeno made love to her while thinking of another. This, he cannot erase. This, he must remember when he looks at her; a merited punishment.

And now Jeno is heading to see the one who plagues not only his dreams, but every conscious second of his day as well. Among many other things Donghyuck has stolen his sense of smell, and daisies, no matter how pristine and seraphic, cannot charm him anymore.

“I’m leaving for the Frozen Hearth. There’s going to be a storm tonight – it’s best that you stay inside, Miss Caria.”

What a considerate man he is.

Her hands fly to hold his. They’re cold. “Can I see you tomorrow?” she pleads.

Jeno stares at her pale hands clinging to him like he’s the last ray of winter sun, and without him the pale garden will wither. It’s best if he grants her the closure she deserves before the end of the break. 

He nods.

* * *

Donghyuck isn’t here. Not yet, at least. 

Wouldn’t it be funny, if he never showed up? Jeno thinks it’d be absolutely hilarious as he drains the goblet of Velvet LeChance. It’d be a heartfelt slap across his lucidity; perhaps he’d finally wake up from this choking dream and stop sleepwalking toward the elusive goal.

He’s sitting on the wooden stool at the bar, watching the innkeeper fill the ample cups with mead.

“What’s with yer long face, young lad?” the Nord asks. “Yer were left with the petal ‘she loves me not’?”

Jeno’s mopey mood escapes him through a humored blow of his nose. Nords are quite the perfect drunken company, Johnny wasn’t lying about that. He glances over his shoulder to look at the door at the very back of the spacious room.

“Is the room in the back available?” he inquires. “I’d like to rent it for the night.”

“Sure is.”

There is no point in returning to the College either way. He’d prefer his bedtime story to be the muted hubbub of the tavern over the whistling of the storm harassing his little window. The night is still young – he’ll wait a little longer before heading to the room.

He doesn’t have to wait for long – the doors to the outside cast open, momentarily allowing the curious freezing wind to sweep inside. 

It’s Donghyuck. Donghyuck and his Redguard friend, Yukhei.

The boy shakes his curls gracefully, causing the snowflakes that dust them to fall. His eyes squint, scouting the area. The search ends with them landing on Jeno. Donghyuck only pays regard to him for that short moment, before he and Yukhei join the little huddle of students who’ve stayed for the break.

Jeno spins in his seat so he can properly face them, one elbow propped against the counter as he sips on his costly drink. Nobody cares to pay attention to his presence, to his unapologetic staring. Nobody but Donghyuck. Every now and again, the boy will listen instead of talking, and his gaze will travel to where Jeno is anticipating it.

_How did you know I was in the Arch-Mage’s quarters that night? Did you follow me?_

Jeno’s scrutiny dips to where the swirl of alcohol and heaven is undulating gently inside the metal walls of the goblet.

_Or did you know beforehand? If so, did you put on the necklace to draw anger out of me? Did you bring the blade with you for the exact same reason? How did you find out, when it was only me and the two Imperial cousins who were aware. Renjun wouldn’t betray me, which means..._

After the last drop of Velvet LeChance drips down his throat, Jeno stands up. The action successfully captures Donghyuck’s attention, and their eyes meet briefly as the Altmer nears the room he has rented. He unlocks it with the key the Nord handed to him earlier, but doesn’t fasten the lock when inside.

A single bed. Faded dun sheets. A little table accompanied by two stools. A tall bookcase. A humbly furnished room.

Jeno tosses the key atop the table and lumbers to the bed, his back hitting the sheets with a thump. He lies there, unmoving, for what could have been five minutes. Could have been ten. He lies there until the door cracks open again, and he continues to do so until the mattress sags under someone’s weight.

When his head turns, there’s Donghyuck. When he sits up, there’s Donghyuck sitting next to him. When he stares quietly, Donghyuck does too.

Jeno decides not to stretch this silence for any longer – they both know what it is they’re here for – and his hand acts accordingly, touching the Bosmer’s knee boldly, stroking his thigh, squeezing it.

Donghyuck sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you going to finish what you started?”

Jeno huffs. “I started it?”

“Yes. You used me, and then you left me–”

“Because you asked me to.”

“Did I? I don’t remember.” There’s the glint crossing his eyes that feigns innocence, one that is always followed by disaster. “All I know is I tried to stop you, and then you used force and pinned me down and–”

Jeno had predicted this. He predicted this, and it still enkindles rage within him.

“No, no,” he roars. “ _You_ manipulated me into having sex with you. Don’t even try, Donghyuck. Don’t you even try twisting the narrative this time. If you ever lie about something as deranged as this to someone, I’ll…” _kill you,_ he wants to finish, but then he realizes he’s on top of the boy, he’s worked up again, and he’s losing.

Donghyuck looks positively bloodthirsty under him. He’s begging to be defiled by the cold-blooded brute – the first time wasn’t enough for him – but Jeno won’t allow him to get his way. He’s got something else in mind for tonight. So, he closes his eyes for a moment, breathes, and domesticates the rising storm.

Assertive hands undress the boy brusquely, leaving not a single piece of clothing that could commit the crime of hiding as little as a patch of skin from him. He’s entitled to the sight of it, to every flaw and imperfection, every curve and meander, every dip and every slope. He’s a maniac hungry for knowledge, and he currently craves to know what’s so special about this body that had him stuck in a rut of erotic fantasies for two weeks straight.

Is it the battlefield of two races? Is it the little moles speckled across his skin? The tiny scars and bruises and scratches collected throughout numerous hunts? Is it the limp sex between his legs that is hardening under Jeno’s frenzied glare?

_What is it, what is it, what is it?_

Jeno scrambles off the bed to loom over it instead. Shadowed by the Altmer, Donghyuck shrinks, his arms crossed over his chest in a futile effort to cover himself, his legs bending at the knees, concealing his erection. A flush of embarrassment shames his face – he was exposed so suddenly. It doesn’t help that Jeno is carrying on with his stern demeanor, but he just doesn’t understand.

_Perhaps looking isn’t enough. Perhaps he has to touch. To taste. And then the divine revelation will come to him, changing him forever._

He sinks back down on to the edge of the bed.

“Come here.”

Time freezes at the mark of Donghyuck’s quiet, shaky breath, and it slips back in motion when the boy obeys and appears before him. Jeno then pulls him down on his lap, earning a gasp.

At last, this wild hellish heat is trapped in the cage of his arms, physical, palpable. This eternal fire that burns, and where Jeno should scream in agony, he basks in it instead. His touch is icy against Donghyuck’s skin, and his hand moves upward to his throat – a flashback to that critical night. Donghyuck reclines his head on Jeno’s shoulder when slender fingers tame his neck. 

His other hand wanders. It grazes. Feathery touches that aim to tickle, arouse. Jeno doesn’t embrace him where he needs it most, but with every new journey he gets closer and closer; sweet teasing torture. And Donghyuck — he shivers each time, his rosy lips pressed into a pout, resistant. 

Jeno is a beginner musician, new to the wondrous world of music, and Donghyuck is his harp. He must be patient and acquaint himself with the instrument before he can learn the secret chords that’ll have the boy singing a song of pleasure to him. Not pain, no. Not this time.

Will it sound different? If it doesn’t, won’t that mean he’s not sophisticated enough to perceive the difference? _It’s a ridiculous thought: an Altmer not refined enough to understand a Bosmer. Then again, all of this is ridiculous._

Jeno’s face then presses against Donghyuck’s, their mouths dangerously close as he flicks his nipple – tugs on a string – just to see what note it’ll play. The boy arches into him, yet remains persistent in restraining any sounds that go above quickened breathing. It’s insufficient, but Jeno savors the reaction anyway.

A knock on the door disturbs his learning.

“Joroth?” a female voice calls. The fragrance of fresh daisies suddenly floods the room. It’s Caria.

Immediately, his eyes fly to the key thrown on the little table. Donghyuck didn’t lock the door upon entering, did he? And here Jeno is, with a Bosmer on his lap — it’s worth mentioning Donghyuck is nude from head to toe, and everyone outside this room terms him his sworn enemy.

“The innkeeper told me you’re in there.”

_Confound it, that voluble old man._

What should he do? Does he hide Donghyuck? Does he hide instead? What if she comes in before he can do either—

The boy exploits the sudden upheaval, his hand coming up to tear Jeno’s away from his throat just to bring it down to the hellish heat. Before he can even register it, Jeno is stroking Donghyuck’s cock with the guidance of Donghyuck himself.

“...Yes?” he finally responds, his mind disordered. 

“Can I come in?”

“No!” 

It’s too harsh, the way he says it, so he repeats it. Softer this time. “No… I might’ve had one too many tonight. I’d be miserable were you to see me as I am.”

With every unhurried tug Donghyuck further melts on top of him. He’s watching Jeno weave a filthy lie to the fair maiden, eyes hazy; his expression is both bashful and vulgar.

_Oh, you terrible thing._

“I understand. I know I said we would meet tomorrow… but I could not fall asleep after bumping into you,” she continues. “I must confess my feelings, Young Master Lorathael, and perhaps this door separating us is here to give me the courage.”

The harp produces its first sounds. Donghyuck is gasping next to his ear softly. Intentionally _._

“...And perhaps you won’t remember this tomorrow. Part of me wishes you won’t...”

_He might not remember, and it’s not because he’s drunk — he’s not._

“After we exchanged words in Ravaena’s manor, I could not stop thinking about you. Day and night, thoughts of you consumed.” 

_Little sounds of pleasure. Donghyuck is full-on moaning now, and he conducts the tempo of the motion; lento to allegro. Jeno is trying his best to listen, but it’s hard. It’s incredibly hard with the ethereal melody leading his mind elsewhere, past the parched gardens into the terrestrial paradise._

“I know I am foolish to think that someone like me could ever turn the head of someone as noble as you. Yet, I can’t help but dream…”

Jeno’s frowning with how hard he’s trying to concentrate on the flowery words – they barely make any sense.

“...And the night we shared gives me hope…”

His efforts backfire: he mindlessly tightens his grip around Donghyuck, drawing a whine out of him. It’s loud, it’s piercing, and it halts the confession coming from behind the door.

Oh, it’s over now, isn’t it.

Donghyuck looks half surprised at how high the melody just swelled, half afraid Jeno will erupt.

And Jeno could erupt. It’d only take a single dust speckle falling awry on him to tick him off, but he’s set himself up, if anything. The boy might’ve sparked the flame, he might’ve fed it until it grew into a bonfire, but Jeno is the one nestling closer for warmth, wrapping his body around it, scared that the tempest outside will snuff it out. It was him who didn’t lock the door in hopes that the phantom from his nightmares would visit him, and it was him who disrobed the boy with good grace.

They’re taking turns, honing this sin. Donghyuck just took it up a notch. It’s Jeno’s turn.

He puts the Bosmer’s hand aside.

_A coward, a bloody cheater, a pervert, and now an unfeeling heartbreaker. When the day of last judgment comes, the record of his sins will scroll back endlessly._

The silence lurking outside is deafening. 

“...Am I interrupting something?” Caria asks. There’s a faint soreness to her voice.

And it’s absolutely despicable how he ignores the way it makes him feel. It’s outright detestable how his hand engulfs Donghyuck without remorse. He’s ready to perform unguided.

“Yukhei should still be there with the others,” Donghyuck manages a crippled whisper.

The Bosmer is offering him a temporary escape; all he needs to do right now is announce the verdict.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Miss Caria,” he says with finality. “You should go back to the College. Find the Redguard student, he’ll take you to the tower. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.”

For a painfully long moment there’s no sound that could reciprocate his. But then the receding footsteps let him know the confession booth has been deserted.

“Am I a secret?” Donghyuck asks.

_You are. Not in the way you think, but you’re a secret nonetheless. One that cannot be spoken aloud. One I keep from myself._

“Yes,” he confirms stoically.

The boy’s gaze thaws fleetingly; it’s tender, it’s melancholic, and it’s the most unguarded Jeno has ever seen him be. 

He begins to fondle Donghyuck, their eyes conversing, the phenomenon of giving and receiving connecting them. Jeno’s face is still rigid, in perfect contrast with the boy’s; Donghyuck is relaxed, his body fidgety, the air spurting out of his lungs in a flutter. Jeno is aware the song he’s been waiting to hear must derive from artless pleasure, but they cannot reach that point without pain. Without punishment. Donghyuck is a complex lock, totally unique, and Jeno although an outlaw, cannot pick it without compulsion. Magicka hustles to the hand kneading Donghyuck’s inner thigh, and he’s soon branding the soft flesh with scorching fingertips. The radiant power of Restoration follows right after, the relentless motion of up and down complementing the sensation.

Donghyuck convulses. Unbridled, he cries – sings. His body threatens to slip out of Jeno’s grip before he reinforces it, the collar of fingers fastening around his neck once again, keeping it where it belongs—pressed to his. Even after the fact, the two golden thighs shake and the flush chest rises and falls arduously.

He’s then met with a wide-eyed stare; Donghyuck is mystified, disoriented, intrigued.

_Restoration is beautiful, his mother had said._

“Again?” comes the question when the physical turmoil in his domain calms down. A few jerks of the head affirm eagerly. Jeno wounds. Then, he heals. He gives Donghyuck verve, and he takes.

_This song you’re singing is unworldly, a harmonic strain that soothes sore ears. Outside this room – this shrine – there are men awaiting the prophesied word. Let them know how much it hurts to saunter this earthly soil, to be alive, to burn. Let them hear how good it feels._

“Why did you come back to Winterhold?” the boy asks when he’s allowed to respire.

“You want me to say it?” A pointless question. Why wouldn’t Donghyuck want to hear about the destruction he’s caused? Jeno’s lips brush against the Bosmer’s ear. “Because you made sure I came back, had me demand you stay away just so I could do something as humiliating as to be the one to crawl back. You were all I could think about, even when I was making love to someone else. _Especially_ when I was.”

Donghyuck groans in spite of the deficiency of foreign touch, his limbs spasming, glassy eyes trained on the ceiling. “Please… _please…_ ” he’s beseeching, calling the cognate gods above to the rescue — a mortal is chastising him.

“Please what?”

But the boy will only beg twice in his dreams. His form vibrates like a struck metallic string, finding solace only when Jeno’s touch is indulging him again — destroying him just so he can be built anew; and the cycle repeats itself for eternity.

Every time he feels Donghyuck’s body tense up, Jeno quits before the melody can rise to a crescendo. And every time he does, the Bosmer complains: he whines, tight-lipped, dissatisfied, his hips buck up, chasing the gifted, magic-slicked hands that inflict pain; that play. 

“How did you know I was planning on going to the Arch-Mage’s quarters that night? Tell me. Was it Jaemin who told you?”

He might be at Jeno’s mercy, but Donghyuck’s sacred resolve doesn’t crack; “I cannot tell you.”

“It was him. I know it.”

Another question; “How long have you been plotting this for? Since the beginning? Or did you decide one day that hating me and blackening my name wasn’t damaging enough?”

Undying devotion to reticence. Donghyuck won’t relent. What a foolish, inexperienced boy; here, where mortals live, obstinacy is cured with punishment. An unsparing hand delivers justice. Donghyuck’s eyes roll skyward before closing. Crystalline tears trickle down his face. A choked cry rings loudly in the room. Jeno removes his touch from around Donghyuck’s cock again, the other hand caressing the chastened patch of skin, relieving the pain, restoring.

“Please,” the boy’s head collapses into Jeno’s neck. Yet another undefined plea. _Who are you praying to? What are you praying for? Who or what do gods turn to when they’re suffering? Is it the sensation, the only thing more holy and true than them?_

When he lays a lenient hand on Donghyuck’s face, he finds his cheeks damp. Jeno lifts his pendulous head, forging eye contact the boy can’t escape.

_Oh, you beautiful thing._

Donghyuck is losing his divinity – he’s on the brink of dying, experiencing a culmination beyond bodily. 

“Have you touched yourself to the thought of me?” It’s here – the crowning glory of this piece.

Donghyuck’s misty eyes read the words on Jeno’s mouth; he’s giving his all to comprehend what they ask of him. Jeno encourages him to speak his honesty by tracing the silhouette of his throbbing erection. At once, Donghyuck’s gaze regains focus.

“Yes! Yes– I have,” his lips divulge; they betray for the promised high – the ultimate treason of his heavenly abode. Tears must’ve soured their taste, Jeno thinks as he witnesses the crime.

He embraces the heat one last time. At the feet of Donghyuck’s shrine, he makes his final request. “I need you to say my name. My Altmeri name,” he tells him. _Dedicate this prayer to me, the worshipper who has sacrificed everything to awaken that sensation in you, the sorcerer who surrendered his magicka for the greater good._

Donghyuck comes with his cry named after his most staunch follower.

Then, Jeno’s arms enclasp the crumbling temple, the tremor that overcomes the Bosmer’s body. Jeno’s eyes draw shut, his lips ghost over Donghyuck’s shoulder – he’s drinking the rapture, the ruination, and it’s ten times as hypnotic and sweet as Velvet LeChance – and they run alongside his skin, up to his nape where they halt at the feel of the boy’s ear. 

_Restoration is beautiful. It’s beautiful when it destroys, and it’s beautiful when it repairs. It’s even more beautiful when the recipient is Donghyuck – bare and exposed, rubbing against the fully clothed sinner. His skin must be irritated, his sap – stolen._

The lingering sobs quiet down eventually, and so does the shuddering of Donghyuck’s body. Silence. There’s no round of applause celebrating the end of the performance – the audience has vanished. It’s just him and Donghyuck on this lorn night, and not a single shared emotion between them. There’s no hate. There’s no lust, either. Even if Jeno’s body is bothered and hot, it doesn’t demand attention. It does demand for Jeno to move, however.

He lets up the hold he has on Donghyuck – slowly, in case the boy in his arms is just riven fragments barely holding together. He slithers an arm under Donghyuck’s knees, picking him up only to lay him on his deathbed.

This time, there’s nothing obstructing his nomadic staring. Maybe because there is no strength left in those two lean arms of a talented archer; they’re lying inert at his sides. It’s only Donghyuck’s lungs that still stress against the air, and his eyes, although half-lidded, maintain a keen glare. The tears have dried up.

Jeno leans down to wrest the covers from under the weight of Donghyuck, and pulls them over him. It’s quite chilly inside; if the boy isn’t shivering at this moment, it doesn’t mean the cold won’t assault him the next.

“I rented this room for the night. You can stay in here,” Jeno guarantees.

It appears as if Jeno misjudged the situation, and there’s still enough strength in Donghyuck for him to make a displeased face and grab Jeno’s withdrawing form by the arm. 

“Are you leaving me for a second time?” he asks. The hardness in his eyes tells Jeno it’s not easy, casting your pride aside to raise a question which leaves a gaping opening. Right now, it’d only take a quick jab of rejection to strike the vulnerable boy down. “Stay. At least until I fall asleep.”

Jeno thinks about it. The Bosmer might have earned his wrath and his pettiness, but it’d be inhumane to cold-shoulder him twice. He sits down. Donghyuck’s weak grasp never leaves his arm. Rather, it slides down, and his fingers curl around Jeno’s pinky. The Altmer stares at the contact wordlessly. 

“Tell me something,” Donghyuck prompts.

“Like what? A bedtime story?”

“Anything.”

 _Anything, huh?_ Anything is too broad of a limitation. On second thought, there’s barely anything that connects them. The College? The warrant? Jeno could talk about his day, too: _I woke up, spent my morning wondering how I was going to approach you, then I was rejected, but not really, because you suggested I come here. And then I found out Miss Caria had returned to Winterhold following right after me, and she tried to confess her admiration while I–_

Or, he could approach the topic he always does with those he barely knows: politics.

That’s exactly what he does.

“That’s boring. It’s making me fall asleep,” Donghyuck interrupts his spoken musings flatly.

Jeno shoots back; “Isn’t that the whole point?”

The boy tugs on his finger. “You’re trying to get rid of me, whereas I’m asking to be entertained. Tell me something interesting – it’s an order.”

Jeno arches a brow. “And you are?”

“I’m Donghyuck.”

“And why should I, Joroth Lorathael, take orders from you, _Donghyuck_?”

“You already have once.”

_Put your hands on deck. Stand up. Unbutton the shirt. Touch. Make love._

Jeno looks away with all speed. This Bosmer… His usual complexion is returning to him, too; what a devil, feeding off of his shame.

Aside from politics, there is something he’s knowledgeable about. Something he wouldn’t bring up without the help of Renjun. But, at this point, can his image get any worse? 

“I could tell you about dragons,” he suggests, free from expectation.

Donghyuck seizes the offer without any concern — he must really disfavor the previous topic. “That works.”

So, without any coming remarks on how geeky it is, Jeno ends up revisiting the stories he loved as a child. He talks about the intelligent creatures, mentions how there’s no distinction between debate and combat to a dragon and that’s what makes them so fascinating and formidable. He also brushes over his favorite breed of dragons – the frost dragons.

“Blood dragons are cooler,” Donghyuck quickly rebuts.

“And why’s that? You have to give a supporting argument. I assume it’s the name.”

“No, they just… They just are…” he rubs his eyes awake - they have been blinking at Jeno tiredly. ”Fine— It’s the name. But it’s not my fault frost dragon sounds lame. Everything is either frost or fire – there’s no variety.”

“You’re saying that as if the prefix ‘blood’ is any more unique.”

“It might not be unique, but at least it catches your attention. If I hear ‘frost dragon’, I go: next! Disinterested! But then if you mention _blood_ , it’s a completely different story. It’s how you sell a fantasy.”

Jeno lets go of a languid breath. This conversation is utterly useless, pointless, and every other _less_ out there. But why is he secretly enjoying it? He’s discussing dragons with a boy he had _very inappropriately_ touched not even fifteen minutes ago. Quite the leap: from _have you fantasized about me_ to _what’s your favorite breed of dragon_.

“I can’t say I’m surprised that that’s the take of a merchant's son,” he comments.

Silence.

Has Jeno said something wrong? The words prime Donghyuck’s lips with pique, and his fingers that previously clung to his have disappeared under the sheets.

“...Tell me more about frost dragons. Convince me that they’re better, son of a politician,” the boy says after a while.

Jeno is hesitant to move on from the vague awkwardness, but decides not to delve into the secrecy of the atmosphere. He tells the Bosmer the story of the last Dragonborn and the fierce battle between her and a frost dragon’s shouts. He gets a little too passionate, a little too absorbed, and when he turns to Donghyuck to ask him a question, he finds the boy is sound asleep. Dried up brooks of tears frame his face benevolently, and everything else about his expression conveys indescribable tranquility. Tonight, Jeno has shown him all that comprises the lives of mortals; he’s shown him the peace that comes with death.

Before leaving, he stays amid the secular silence for another fifteen minutes, the divinity he had been worshipping lying beside him – no longer watching over him, but the luminosity of supernova remains.

* * *

A beautiful morning full of fresh beginnings. A sunny genesis. A new era.

“There’s somebody else, isn’t there?”

He’s in Ravaena’s quarters, but the one speaking to him is Miss Caria.

_No, there’s no one occupying Jeno’s heart. Yes, there’s someone that lords over his mind and body._

“Yes,” he lies; he says truthfully. 

“Who is she? Is she a first-year? Do I know her?”

Jeno remains silent.

“Is it Ravaena?” she tries in spite of his unresponsiveness.

“No.”

Hopelessness and stubbornness fight for which gets to reign over her winsome moue. “Young Master Joroth, I beg you, I need to know who it is that has won your heart. I need to know what kind of woman she is. I will stay restless until I know.”

Jeno is doomed to be a ruthless wall that cannot speak; that cannot grant her simple wish.

_It’s a first-year, a foulmouthed boy. You know him, and you probably think ill of him. He’s my nemesis, and he’s a Bosmer and possibly half Man. He’s no competition to a fair maiden, and he doesn’t pretend to my feelings. He hates me. I hate him._

“Is she the one… I heard last night. Or was that just another substitute?”

Jeno’s eyebrows lower. “Miss Caria,” he calls her name in a cold sober manner. “You were not a substitute. That which happened between us happened because of you. I had no ulterior motives when approaching you.”

It’s true. Blonde unruly curls and sun-kissed cheeks. Sweet, floral perfume and polite titters. The mere sight of her had enticed him. Even right now, she’s lovely, and Jeno could have been falling for the girl in front of him. He could have been a giddy fool struck by a sudden feeling, writing syrupy love letters and uttering sweet nothings against her skin. However, he’s cross with another outlaw, and outlaws thieve. They take and never give back. Donghyuck has stolen this from him – he had broken in on that balmy evening and nabbed his focus away from the perfection lying under him.

It wasn’t his intention to shift the blame on her, but he notices the apologetic look she gives him upon being called out for her semi-false accusation.

Jeno is watching the wilting of a daisy in real time.

“Is there any hope still left that your mind will change? I can wait if it’s you I’m waiting on.”

“I don’t know.” – _Why are you hanging on despite witnessing my depravity? –_ “But it’s best we forget what happened. I can’t prognosticate my feelings nor my behavior toward you, Miss Caria. I can only give you present closure.”

There’s a moment of her hand aiming for his face, but then she hesitates.

“If you want to slap me, you’re allowed to do so,” Jeno tells her. “I deserve it.”

The girl shakes her head weakly. “You’re not the kind of man to merit affront.”

She’s wrong. She’s blinded by a daydream that nullifies reality. Is this what infatuation is? A delusion? A distorted vision of the one you fancy?

She tightens the noose around his neck with but a request; “You didn’t kiss me on the lips that night. Would it be selfish of me to ask for a parting gift?”

A beautiful morning. The peeking sun promises a day of respite from the turbulent blend of gale and snow. Jeno leans down to meet the lips that welcome him. He feels nothing.

* * *

There’s still a week left until the end of the break. The daytime Hearth has been the perfect cover both from the weather and the boredom, but it can only stay as the ideal place for so long. Withal, he’s lounging in the tavern, gazing out the window at all the passersby that were plucked out of their homes by the sunbeam – he’s at the table that Jaemin had led them to the first time they drank by themselves. Speaking of the Imperial, Jeno can’t wait to have a talk with him. He’s also, sort of, loathing the absence of Renjun and Ravaena, and he’s ready to start his dual-wielding training with the Dark Elf.

The coin trapped between his fingers taps against the tabletop.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

A bearded Nord Jeno has never seen before walks down the road.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

And there goes the owner of the local pharmacy, her fiery hair melting the icy air around her, creating puffs of smoke. Or perhaps it’s her labored hot breath – she’s carrying average-sized sacks, three in each hand, which could contain ingredients and herbs.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Two students pass her. A Redguard and a Bosmer.

_Tap… Tap…. Tap…_

Wait, what?

Jeno’s eyes dart elsewhere – he can’t afford the pair noticing him. He only reverts to the window when he knows their backs are facing the tavern.

Interesting. Donghyuck’s bow isn’t snuggling the hunter’s back, so the hunting grounds aren’t their destination. What is it, then? What are they possibly attending to?

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Another cave? No, not when unarmed.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

They’re probably heading for the stables. It’s a pacific day; the horses should be on offer. 

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Jeno lays the coin flat. He rises from his seat, and exits the Frozen Hearth.

* * *

He was right: they’re setting out somewhere. 

Jeno waits for them to go inside the stables before emerging from behind the outlying building that signs the margin of the town. He has picked locks before, and now he’s treading warily in order to tail someone. He’s gotten rather good at this whole outlaw thing.

When he enters the stables, he perceives Yukhei is at the back of the aisle, conversing with the owner. Donghyuck is nowhere to be seen, but Jeno still remembers the exact stall with his usual pick.

The use of Muffle is automatic. Inside the stall, he finds the Bosmer tacking up the Halfbred, and when Jeno abates the power of the spell, the sudden boldness of his advancing presence startles the boy.

“Fucking hell,” Donghyuck exclaims. He’s glaring at Jeno, his hands frozen where they were strapping the girth a second ago. “What was that?”

“Muffle.”

At last, he understands why Johnny was so persistent with tormenting his younger brother. There’s something mildly satisfying in catching someone off guard. 

The boy returns to handling the girth. There’s a single pucker between his eyebrows. “What do you want?” He asks, his tone aloof. Before Jeno can say anything, he adds: “No, I won’t have sex with you. I’m busy.”

“That’s not–” The Altmer whips to look at the Redguard; to check if he hasn’t untimely moved closer. How can Donghyuck say something this divulging so loosely?

“Then why are you here?”

“Where are you two going?” Jeno deflects. 

“And why should I tell you that?”

Neither of them wants to answer questions; they only prompt them. Donghyuck has finished saddling the horse, and he’s ready to open the gate, but Jeno doesn’t move from where he’s standing on the other side of it. Why can’t the Bosmer be as docile as he was in the embrace of Jeno’s arms?

This is the first time they’re seeing each other since the collision at the tavern, and they spend the moment exchanging hard looks. Jeno is pissed the boy has managed to affect as much as he has. Donghyuck must have his reasons to be annoyed, too – he’s the one to break the tension and look away, exasperated. “We’re going to the Shrine of Azura.” 

Jeno retreats from the gate. “I want to go with you.”

Now with the path no longer blocked, Donghyuck leads the horse out of the stall by the reins. “Nobody stopped you from following us here,” he says. “Nobody’s going to stop you if you follow us to the shrine, either.”

It’s a flimsy yes, but it’s a yes nonetheless. Jeno takes it.

* * *

Yukhei doesn’t seem too enthusiastic about another traveler tagging along. Jeno can’t blame him; he’s not exactly the most virtuous and trustworthy in the eyes of the Redguard. Or most students, for that matter. He’s currently listening to a conversation in which he’s not included as he proceeds behind the pair.

The sunlight pours over them. Beneath it, snowbanks glisten. The Shrine of Azura is to the south of Winterhold, on the summit of a lofty mountain – despite aiming at the warrant named after the deity, Jeno has never set foot inside the sanctuary. Howbeit, he’s heard of it; _the guarded treasure resides inside the diamond walls and the light that cuts through the space indwells those who worship Azura._

Now, he’s not sure why he insisted on joining Donghyuck and his friend. Must have been the boredom seeping into his bones – he’s not particularly interested in the shrine itself. 

Before they can get to the stairs leading up the mountain, they pass five tethered horses. Some other people must have also thought this motionless day to be the perfect opportunity to visit the shrine. Ascending the stairs proves to be a challenge, but Jeno has been unknowingly preparing for this moment the entire school year – the continuous up and down the tower – and so he steals glances at the puffing Bosmer, most gratified.

It’s a clear day – the town is visible, tiny under their awestruck gaze.

Something is amiss about the calm of it all, however. Jeno can’t pinpoint what it is exactly, but the moment they encountered the horses left farther from the stairs, his gut instinct had nudged him. When they take the final steps and the sight of the shrine opens up before them, he _knows_ that something is wrong.

“Something’s not right here,” he announces.

Behind the stone fort-like structure, atop the mountain, there’s a massive statue of a woman reaching her hands toward the sky. In one hand there’s a sun, in the other – a crescent. 

“What do you mean?” asks Donghyuck.

“There should be at least two guards patrolling outside, but strangely enough, no one’s greeting our arrival.”

The two friends eyeball each other. Donghyuck pulls out a dagger – a standard steel one, not the Blade of Sacrifice. He attempts to move forward, but Jeno ruins that plan with an extension of his arm.

“I’ll go in first,” he tells the boy who’s raising a daring eyebrow at him. “I can use Muffle.”

At first, Donghyuck doesn’t move, just stares, unyielding. Then, he backs down. _Good. As you should._

Jeno leads them past the doorless entrance, down into the shrine. It’s fairly dark inside – the sole source of light is the open ceiling at the end of the hallway where the main space is located. He stops dead in his tracks upon observing two unmoving limbs protruding from the upcoming turn to his right.

His index finger presses against his lips as a warning, and he instructs the two students trailing after him to halt their stealthy walk.

Jeno progresses alone to investigate.

A firm hand grapples his neck, pulling him to the side, toward the darkened corner.

Another comes to cover his mouth – it’s coated with magicka. The spell of Calm that Donghyuck had used on the familiar is now rendering him nonresistant. The person should perform a finishing move any second now.

But then, a voice calls to him.

“Jeno?” it speaks his name.

A familiar voice.

The suffocating grasp droops down.

“Johnny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i refuse to write jeno pleasuring dh as anything other than a religious experience. it’s the beginning of the beginnings. it’s the genesis creation . . . if i remember correctly, it goes like: in the beginning, god created the heaven and the earth... and donghyuck. 
> 
> do you remember somewhere in the first chapters jeno was thinking about how he’s heard stories of solitary mages substituting warmth of another human being by using restoration? and jeno now showed donghyuck magic can be paired with other stimuli. we've heard he had a tobacco addiction in the past, so we can only assume he’s prone to developing addictions. . . i’ll let you draw your own conclusions from here.
> 
> hi, johnny, you were missed.
> 
> the "oh, you terrible thing" and "oh, you beautiful thing" lines were taken straight from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVDGMXFWWG0) song, which i feel resonates with how jeno will continue to perceive the relationship between them.
> 
> if you're enjoying the story, let me know. your comments make my day.
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	12. Moving Past the Real

“That’s your brother?” Donghyuck ask-whispers, incredulous.

“Yeah,” answers Jeno just as incredulously.

The three students have lined up in the main space beneath the open ceiling, watching the marauding band do their work – they’re gathering the knocked out guards in one spot, snagging their snoozing bodies against the wall. The realization that his brother is one of them if not the leader is only coming to Jeno, slowly. Johnny is overseeing the clean-up of the robbery, hands resting on his hips as he squints at the mate searching one of the guards’ bodies.

“You might have gone overboard this time,” the man tells Johnny.

His brother shrugs. “He was more resistant than the rest. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Let’s hope you didn’t put him in a coma.”

The man then straightens up. He’s notably short next to his brother – _but who isn’t?_ The two have a hushed conversation meant for their ears only, and by the end of it, the man buries his face in Johnny’s chest modestly while the other breaks into light laughter. They seem close. Once the shorter male peels himself off of Jeno’s brother, he approaches the three students who stand at attention.

“Normally, you would be lying with those guys over there,” he cocks his thumb toward the guards. Then, he tugs on his hood causing it to fall back, and pulls down the black scarf cloaking his identity. Revelation after revelation – it’s the scholar, the one who had casted the strong familiar during the hunt. The same one who had apparently planted the idea of borrowing the Arch-Mage’s records in Jaemin’s head. “But how could we ever do that to our fellow College members?”

“Ten?” Yukhei steps forward.

The direct callout of his name brings a smile to the Imperial’s face. “I didn’t think you’d find out this way… or, at all.” The shouts of the other crew members seek for help, hauling Ten away. “Hold on– I’ll be back.”

With the scholar ditching them, it’s Johnny’s turn to shed some light on the matter. He walks over to them, and somewhere along the way the sight of Donghyuck absorbs the attention that was previously directed at his younger brother. His scrutiny isn’t completely transparent, but Jeno can tell he’s _intrigued._ It’s the visible denial of his brows wanting to bump together and thus twitching lightly, all the while his expression is seemingly smirky.

“We can help the others back there,” Donghyuck’s hand flicks between himself and Yukhei. His tone of voice is genial. Jeno observes the Bosmer with a sidelong glance – the boy looks comparably curious. It reminds him of the kowtowing he’d done to the Master Wizard and Jeno is suddenly making an effort to not scoff.

“Sure.”

Granted the permission, the pair leaves Jeno and his brother alone. Johnny’s eyes stay stuck on Donghyuck for half a second longer. His half-smile widens. “Is he..?”

“Probably.”

The reaction feels unreasonably strong until Jeno remembers how uncommon it is to encounter _mixed_ individuals – even when you’re someone who travels as much as Johnny does. He also realizes how desensitized he’s become when thinking about the fact Donghyuck could be anything but a pure-blooded elf. There again, he’s quite the expert now, and if anyone was ever in dearth of knowledge on how the taboo subject looks and _feels_ , Jeno could supply them with it generously. 

“Would’ve never thought you’d be open to the idea of befriending a Bosmer,” his brother says.

Jeno blinks at him vacantly. “We’re not friends.”

It’s a puzzling response given the situation, and it fittingly excites confusion in Johnny. He quirks a brow. “So you’ve learned Muffle, huh?” he changes topics. “Guess I’m dead meat.”

“I’m pretty sure _I_ was dead meat ten minutes ago.”

Johnny laughs. “It wasn’t bad. I mean, I could feel it, but it wasn’t as evident as it could’ve been. Good job,” he messes Jeno’s hair, making him glower. They stay quiet for some time as they watch the others swipe the treasure garnishing the altar into their bags. Donghyuck’s blade is picking at the little gems adoring one of the statues. A couple of them _manage to slide_ into his pockets. Jeno huffs out a gentle laugh at the sight of those restless hands of a thief operating.

“You’re calmer about this than I had imagined,” Johnny comments.

“You thought I’d launch into a furious tirade?”

Truth be told, if this incident took place back in early autumn, Jeno would have disapproved of it greatly. He still does to an extent – an outlaw, however, can only point fingers at a mirror.

“More or less. Sprinkle some ‘ _father wouldn’t approve of this_ ’ in there, too.”

“Just so you could negate with ‘ _but mother would_ ’?”

Johnny grins, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don’t think mother would this time.”

“Yeah…” He eyes the scholar and the other men. “I’m still digesting this.”

“I know I said I’d come visit this winter, but I’m doing…other things at the moment as you can see. I’ll be crossing Winterhold around April, though. We can talk about this then. I don’t think now would be appropriate with your friends around.”

Jeno points an accusing finger at him.

“ _Not_ friends,” his brother corrects himself. “But some random strangers with whom you’re visiting shrines for whatever reason.”

“That’s more accurate,” Jeno nods.

“Come to think of it – what are you doing in Winterhold? Shouldn’t you be enjoying your break in Summerset?”

“I returned last week,” he explains briefly.

“Why? What for?”

“Mother said you had suggested I stay.”

“And you left Winterhold only to come back because of that? Don’t bullshit me.”

Jeno looks at Donghyuck who right on cue pops the remaining gem out of its socket and turns round to approach the two brothers. “I’ll tell you in spring. If you actually show up, that is.”

“Making sure I keep my word this time?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation ends on a convenient note – just as the boy stops in front of them. He presents the elder brother with what he’s come to have.

Johnny whistles. “Soul gems,” he names the salmon-pink stones. “You can keep them – I’ve got no use for those.”

And Jeno isn’t sure what it is, but he’s getting riled all of a sudden. Maybe it’s the grin Donghyuck is wearing, satisfied at the praising tone of Johnny’s words. Maybe it’s the upward gaze that sparkles and aims to please, and when Johnny follows Ten’s voice that calls for him, it switches to Jeno and sharpens without delay. 

“Five soul gems – well, aren’t you lucky?” Sarcasm drips from Jeno’s voice. There are three little stones lying in the cradle of the Bosmer’s palm, and so Donghyuck dons befuddlement. “I didn’t forget to count the ones in your pocket, fear not.”

Confronted, Donghyuck looks away. “You’re watching me now?”

“I have to for general safety. Unlike others, I know what you’re capable of.”

“Please, you’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Dramatic? As far as I remember, you have no trouble stealing right under everyone’s noses. When am I getting my necklace back, hm?”

Jeno doesn’t need the necklace, he doesn’t even want it, but he strikes Donghyuck with the question just for the sake of it. Just to see the version of him he’s most familiar with. The boy receives the blow with nothing but finesse.

“Never,” he says decidedly, his head turned to the side.

Jeno surveys his profile before his throat. “Will I ever get to see it again?” _Not stowed somewhere. Not in your hands. Not in mine. But dangling from your neck prettily._

Donghyuck’s gaze returns to his. He thinks before answering. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you behave. Not to upset you, but it’s not looking good for you right now.”

Jeno barks a laugh, and it’s not the most genuine. “You’re painting me as some obedient canine.”

“Aren’t you one? Show me a fun trick or wag your tail, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll open my legs for you again.”

* * *

They find a substituting place for the Frozen Hearth in a nearby town – Winterhold isn’t exactly safe to wander with pockets full of stolen goods. It’s smaller, but the ambience hasn’t felt this alive since the evening of their return from the Sightless Pit. It’s not just them – Johnny, Ten and three other Imperials along with Jeno, Yukhei and Donghyuck – there’s also the locals taking up the other tables and polluting the atmosphere with their guffaws. After days and days of seasonable weather, it’s finally subsiding and more favorable times await.

It’s odd, meeting Johnny like this. It’s odd, but it’s also very fitting. It’s like Jeno is finally seeing him live in his own skin – no longer hiding behind the Altmeri pelt that had been forced on him.

At the request of others – mostly Donghyuck – his brother is recounting previous experiences he and his humble crew of friends had gone through before. It’s all new information to Jeno; he used to think he’s aware of most there is to be aware of when it came to his brother. Oh, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

“...I always thought five was the optimal number for these sorts of things. You can’t have a band marching forward, you know? Don’t want to attract too much attention. Though you shouldn’t be short on people either. But six? I don’t see why six wouldn’t work. We could always use an archer,” Johnny sounds dead serious for a second, but then his lips crack at the corners.

“I would join you in a heartbeat,” Donghyuck says.

“Really? Then join us. Right now,” he springs up from his seat – ostentatious as always – only to sink back down and laugh as he waves his hand in the air. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You’re still a kid. Gotta finish College first.”

Donghyuck acts offended but it’s entirely lighthearted, in a way it never is when it’s Jeno he’s speaking to. “I’m no kid. I’m twenty, and I can kill on command.”

“That might be a little too intense for us, sorry.”

The more Johnny discloses, the more Jeno realizes how different the worlds they live in are. His brother is a horrific representation of what an Altmer is, and Jeno has known that for a while. His lexicon is too saturated with blasphemy, his blatant renunciation of Altmeri attributes is outright offensive and his way of life is beyond the pale. He’s not the High Elf that Jeno is, or that their father was. And Jeno had always deemed it unseemly, but he could also recognize the hierarchy of Summerset. Johnny, who was close to being at the very bottom – the only more improper variation of an Altmer would have had to be a biracial love apologist _–_ was below Jeno. Knowing that would caress his ego sometimes. But then, someone like their mother was below the other Altmers from the main isle. She was the target of ridicule, and her political views that were always inclusive of the Imperial stance were often met with censure. The patent hypocrisy of Jeno reacting in two different ways depending on who was under the attack always held him back from criticizing his brother _too much._ It’s one thing to be ignorant of your hypocrisy, it’s another thing to be aware and still ignore it. Despite what he believed in, Jeno couldn't do the latter. And now he’s observing the man, who according to the established hierarchy is below him, get along with everyone just fine. More than that – Johnny has inarguably charmed and swiped everyone under his wing. Of course, it’s not Altmers that surround them, but it doesn’t diminish the funny feeling it brings.

Jeno recognizes his sulk only when Donghyuck nudges him by staring unobtrusively. The boy’s attention then leaves him, and he looks like he’s having the time of his life listening to Johnny run his mouth once again.

“Agne will be returning to Winterhold shortly after the break,” his brother says out of the blue. “Did you know?”

“When have I ever known anything that concerns her?”

Johnny responds with a lazy smile.

“Who’s Agnae?” Donghyuck raises the quiet question as he leans toward the dark-haired Altmer like it’s a secret Jeno mustn’t overhear.

_You can just ask me. You don’t have to get all up in my brother’s face._

“Our sister.”

Johnny eventually inquires about Donghyuck himself. That’s where the mood shifts – a very minute shift that slips past the others unnoticed. But Jeno has once witnessed the unguarded discomfort of the boy and thus can distinguish it. Nothing new comes up in the conversation that follows; Donghyuck is a merchant’s son, he’s after the warrant, he is the Arch-Mage’s disciple, and there’s nothing else about him that is worth mentioning.

When the buzzword ‘warrant’ first surfaces, Johnny casts Jeno a glance. _How do you feel about all this,_ it seems to ask.

“I’ll be rude and ask something, because I’m terrible like that. Your parents are both Bosmers,” his brother starts and Jeno already doesn’t like where this is going. “So how come you look a little… _mixed_?”

Did the entire tavern just quiet down or is their table enough to make it seem like the concept of sound was suddenly erased from this universe?

But Donghyuck's reaction is rather nonchalant, and his response even witty; “I didn’t think it takes that much brainpower to put two and two together and figure out that I’m probably adopted.”

Johnny laughs. “You’re fun, I like you. So you’re not an offspring of some secret love affair? What’s your human half–” 

“ _My goodness_ ,” Ten’s hand flies to Johnny’s mouth. “That’s enough prying for you.”

“You’ll have to tell me next time,” the Altmer sighs after weighing the hand that halted his line of questioning down. It stays in his lap under the table, making Jeno wonder.

Next is Yukhei’s turn to be interrogated. Unlike Donghyuck, it doesn’t take nearly as much effort to make him talk; no additional questions are needed – he covers everything willingly. _Apparently_ , this Redguard is a son of two plebeian florists from Hammerfell. It’s chucklesome, really – a sturdy Redguard man fiddling with something as delicate as flowers. He lifts his hand in the air, drawing focus to the silver band circling his ring finger.

“I was on duty when this young woman approached me. She wanted to buy flowers from my parents, but…” he offers a reticent smile. “I gave them to her free of charge. Next thing I know she’s my betrothed. Everyone thought I was after her father’s deep pockets, when really it was her courting me! She’d show up every other morning to buy flowers like it was her daily bread. I once mentioned wanting to go to the College, and it really stuck with her. You could say she’s my sponsor and the reason I’m here in the first place.”

“She sounds lovely,” says Johnny.

“She is.”

“Sunflowers and tulips, right?” Ten asks without elaborating further. _The flowers she’d buy? The flowers that remind him of her?_ The Redguard nods, a grin properly settling on his mouth this time. “See, I know this, because Yukhei talks about his betrothed a lot. It’s actually really cute.”

A picture-perfect love story. It could very well rival the classic literature of Summerset, _the couple_ that sits on a pedestal. It warms the hearts of the listeners in the most sincere ways. But…

It might be a coincidence – Donghyuck and Jeno look at each other in unison.

_But it’s boring and predictable._

Jeno has already veered off the intended storyline, hasn’t he?

* * *

His brother waves a goodbye – a see-you-later – while on horseback. Their paths split once again, destined to merge in the near future. Jeno’s hand scrapes the evening air, and he waves back with half the enthusiasm Johnny displayed. There are so many questions he would like to ask the man who’s less familiar than he’d supposed. _Why the path of an outlaw_ , would be the one that burns the brightest.

Jeno has his own reasons, his own justifications, but at the end of the day, the title was imposed on him. It wasn’t a decision of his own free will, but rather a means of moving toward a different goal. So why do it willingly? Or is Johnny as much of a victim of circumstance as Jeno is?

They turn their horses to face Winterhold.

“Your brother’s cool,” Donghyuck says from where he’s riding ahead.

“He’s alright.”

“He’s the coolest Altmer I’ve met so far and probably will ever meet.”

“Okay.”

“I’d be pretty embarrassed if I were you. There’s the genes of _cool_ and _tall_ in your family’s gene pool, and you got neither.”

Jeno doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but if Donghyuck was within arm’s reach, he would push him off his mount and into the thick and cold of snow. The scenario playing in his imagination acts a stopgap – he’ll make sure to come back to the idea as soon as it’s accomplishable. The boy searches for a reaction on Yukhei’s face instead, who only shakes his head at him; but even so, he’s amused.

The stone castle stands visible atop the rising road; the sight of the stables applauds their safe return. 

Abruptly, the two friends communicate their farewells, and Donghyuck’s horse suddenly diverts, taking the path on their right that branches off from the main road.

“Where is he going?” Jeno asks.

For another moment, Yukhei accompanies the disappearing Bosmer with his stare, then sizes him up with a look. It's not condescending – it’s wary. “I don’t really want to trust you after what happened during the familiar hunt, but since Donghyuck does–”

“He trusts me?” Jeno first cuts in, then hopes it didn’t sound like a sneer that it was. He’s not exactly thrilled to hear others explicitly state they mistrust him because of some fabricated reality.

“I mean, why else would he let you tag along?”

The Redguard might overall spend more time around him than Jeno does, but that doesn’t automatically mean he _knows_ him better. Clearly, he doesn’t, if he’s failing to see what there is for Donghyuck to gain. “So he could demean me in front of someone else,” Jeno grants the blind some insight.

Yukhei’s brows knit together. He looks genuinely confused. “And you’re dogging him because he… demeans you?”

If the Redguard was blind to the truth, then Jeno was deaf to the gospel. Hearing it from an outsider really does put things into perspective – he looks absolutely silly right now. And slightly masochistic. “Boredom works its magic.”

It’s tragic, but it’s humorous, and so Jeno understands when Yukhei’s concern cracks and a chuckle replaces it. A good sign.

“He’s heading for the cliff to gaze at the northern lights,” he reveals.

“Why? Can’t he do that at the College?”

Yukhei shrugs. “He always does this after hunting if the skies are clear.”

They proceed down the main road without haste. However, thoughts persist.

“Isn’t it dangerous to wander in the dark so close to forested areas?” Jeno asks.

“He’s a hunter. He’s going to be fine.”

“He doesn’t have his bow on him.”

“Oh. You’re right, he doesn’t.” Even though he acknowledges the fact, Yukhei doesn’t seem at all worried. When The Altmer tightens his grip on the reins, halting his horse, a knowing smile appears. “When you pass a large rock, turn left.”

“Thanks.”

Jeno follows the treaded path until the rock shunts him. He spurs his horse to climb the snowy hill until he’s reached the cliff and there’s the promised sight of Donghyuck greeting him. He barely acknowledges Jeno’s presence – the black sea in front of them earns his full focus. The calmness is atypical of the Sea of Ghosts.

Colors in the sky. It’s beautiful, of course, but most cloudless nights since early December have been bejeweled with streamers of emerald green and sapphire blue. Half a minute of gazing is enough to satisfy Jeno. So, he beholds the next most interesting sight accessible – the boy. There’s something glimmering in those otherwise vacant eyes that watch the jittering light display. His rigid expression parallels one of a statue; the sculptor had tried their best to convey uttermost tranquility, but Donghyuck looks a blink away from allowing a stream of tears to plow his unchanging face. _That’s how he looked when Jeno left him at the tavern, dried up brooks of tears_ _framing his peaceful face benevolently._ Statues don’t blink, however, ordained to preserve the vision of their creator despite the essence residing within.

“You gotta touch them. The lights,” Donghyuck tells him without looking at him, raising his hand to perform his own words.

The Altmer hesitates, but then his hand is mimicking Donghyuck’s as it comes up to swipe against the faraway surface of aurora. Jeno inspects it upon retraction, as if his fingers were supposed to be covered in the colorful brilliance. There’s nothing there.

“Now we both have touched them.”

“I don’t get it,” Jeno admits. Is this some Bosmeri thing he’s not aware of? But then again, what would Bosmers know about polar lights when they live in Tamriel's southwestern tip?

“Good,” he says in a tone that indicates there’s no pending explanation, and Jeno entertains the thought that the time to shove him off his horse has come.

“Wanna go inside?” the boy cocks his chin toward the head of the tower that pokes out from the snowy ground. Jeno didn’t even notice the ruins – he was too absorbed watching the lights in the sky and the lights only.

“What’s in there?”

“You’ll see.”

The skepticism he tries to project doesn’t stop the Bosmer from hopping off his horse. They hitch their mounts to the structure, but Donghyuck leads Jeno away from the ruins and down the nearby slope where a collapsed entrance is laid open.

Donghyuck expects him to perceive the hazardous passage and not doubt it? “Are you going to try and kill me where no one can find my body?” Jeno raises a brow.

“You’re not supposed to ask questions.”

“No, I think I will ask questions when my enemy is trying to lure me into some cave. Unless you thought I’d be charmed by the aurora and forget who I’m dealing with?”

“Ah, so that didn’t work...” The boy plays along with the jest, smiling. “Alright, suit yourself.” He surmounts the fragmented blocks of stone obscuring the way, cruising inside the gloom of the opening. Donghyuck probably doesn’t even know Candlelight… How is he going to light his way?

So, Jeno stands there idly. He should turn around and leave… He should and he will… Any second now… _Nine, eight, seven…_ The aurora really is quite interesting to gawk at… _Six, five, four…_ The moon possesses a reddish tint… _Three, two, one…_

Really, who is Jeno trying to fool when he’s already come here? He, as Yukhei had called it, _dogs_ after Donghyuck once again.

* * *

A pale blue orb of light hovers above their heads like a tiny sun at the zenith, trailing after, illuminating their steps. It’s a familiar decline of a cave – nothing too worrisome or out of the ordinary – but then the architecture gets a bit _overfamiliar._

“Wait–” Jeno’s legs refuse to move forward. He can almost hear the faint but telltale rolling of a metallic sphere. His heart picks up the pace. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” Donghyuck looks over his shoulder to rake over the Altmer.

“Not safe.”

“I’ve been down here ten thousand times and I’m alive as you can see,” he has twisted his body to face Jeno, and he’s walking backwards, arms crossed over his chest as a smirk pulls at the edge of his mouth. “Just say you’re scared – I won’t judge.”

“...Are you sure?”

“I’ve known you’re a wuss, so–”

Jeno’s forehead contracts. “I meant are you sure this cave is empty?” The question comes out more dour this time. 

“I am, I am. Trust me, no one comes here, and I could guide you with my eyes closed.”

He’s reluctant, he’s not fully convinced, but he takes that step nonetheless. Donghyuck is still pushing his silly point by keeping his back turned to the path ahead. _Oh, the smugness will backfire._ Jeno can see the sudden, although shallow drop in the ground awaiting the feet moving with baseless confidence. If only he had a voice so he could warn Donghyuck. If only… 

Jeno captures the exact moment of regret that flashes across the boy’s face as he loses footing – it’s one hundred percent remarkable and he’s one hundred percent content. His hand grasps Donghyuck’s flailing arm, saving him from the destined fall, pulling him closer. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t walk with your eyes closed.” He’s pushing under a triumphant grin in order to sound more offhand than he actually feels. “I won’t believe you’ve been down here _ten thousand_ times either way.”

In his arms, Donghyuck remains dumbfounded until he’s rolling his eyes and pushing him away. Not a single word or remark returns the compliment as he turns on his heel and treads in front of him, completely discomposed. Jeno can finally let go of the breath that is humoring him and threatening his cool. _Now wasn’t that a bit embarrassing for you?_

Deep down they go. Turn after turn, twist after twist. Just how many are left? Donghyuck won’t tell him – _a surprise_ . Or, he won’t tell him because his assaulted honor is still recovering. Whichever it is, Jeno is sure he’ll _be_ surprised. Caves are unpredictable, as he’d come to learn the hard way. At least he doesn’t have to exhaust his magicka anymore – the glowing mushrooms are doing the work for him.

As they pass one of the numerous tunnels – at one point hard dirt and rock have displaced the stone of the stronghold – a mellow blue hue floods it. It’s strikingly similar to the one the glowing fungi fume, just on a bigger scale. Soon, Jeno finds out just how big the scale really is. The tunnel connects to a large cavern, and–

_Calling the sensation that washes over a ‘surprise’ would do disservice to his emotions. In its most primal state, it’s astonishment. Then, there’s the strange feeling of insignificance. He’s an insect, as trivial as an ant, and the reality reigned by giants throws a sobering slap across his face._

Humongous stalks of mushrooms overshadow not only them, but the abandoned buildings too. The ceiling of the cave glows with blue bioluminescent lights. There is a teal fog within the space that makes grasping the size of it difficult, as well as mushroom spores that float throughout the chilly air. Massive geode stones dot the ground, and the pools of water found within are an almost entirely opaque teal.

“Blackreach,” Donghyuck’s voice slices the echoing quiet of the space – that’s the name of this underground city. It rings a bell; Jeno has definitely seen it on paper before, and if he’s not mistaken, the name was written in the copies of the Arch-Mage’s records, in his hurried handwriting.

He would most likely be cemented where he stood for another good minute if it wasn’t for Donghyuck breaching his line of sight. “It loses the wow factor after the ten thousand and first time,” he shrugs.

Jeno nods dumbly.

The Bosmer then leads him down into the forest of giant mushrooms – the atmosphere is so thick that it feels like they’re moving underwater – until they’re stepping on a soft rug of moss. There’s a little hill overlooking the cave, and he quickly learns it’s their destination.

Donghyuck collapses as soon as they reach the top, and then watches as Jeno struggles to decide whether or not he wants to do the same. He joins the boy eventually.

This is… pleasant? A pleasant surprise. More pleasant than a secret civilization of deformed elves, that’s for sure. He looks up – there’s the head of a mushroom hanging above, and it omits purple light. The tiny glowing flecks drift in the air, like snowflakes. Or dandelion seeds.

He should probably say something. There’s a lot he’s currently curious about – the boy has inexplicitly admitted he’s got other blood running alongside Bosmeri – but Jeno can’t possibly be as point-blank as his brother was. There’s a history of him being outspoken and perhaps even, maybe, slightly disrespectful. There’s also an imaginary barrier between them that prevents him from asking questions such as, _why have you come here for one year only,_ or something even less personal - _why are you wielding a right-handed bow?_

“You come here often?” he ends up asking. An attempt at communication, even if a tad awkward. 

Donghyuck snorts. “Obviously. It’s my ten thousand, first time–” Pause. “Not really. Takes too long to get here. And Yukhei is always too lazy.”

“Yukhei?”

“Mhm. I’m not stupid to go alone.”

 _But didn’t you just slip inside with the intention to go down here unaccompanied?_ Right, he must’ve assumed the Altmer would follow him. And he was, to Jeno’s embarrassment, correct. 

A big – bigger than most – spore floats above them. Jeno tracks it’s graceful landing; it rests on Donghyuck’s head.

“Is there a sparkle in my hair?” the boy asks, reading Jeno’s face.

“There is.”

“Take it off.”

Eye contact. Suspense can be traced in Donghyuck’s stare. A nonvocal invitation? It looks and feels like one, but face value isn’t reliable enough when it comes to a master of deceit. Donghyuck’s upper body is propped on his elbows, and when Jeno extends a careful hand, his knees rub together.

He is suddenly reminded of the little garden flourishing inside the Arch-Mage’s quarters. It was a shard of a larger fantasy. A fantasy as large as Blackreach. The boy looks dreamy beneath the purple glow of an artificial sky – a pearl reposing on the padding of moss. The shine reels Jeno in.

“Have you figured out what to do for the warrant?”

The illusion shatters. The faux bubble of friendliness pops. Not an invitation, but a reminder: _don’t get too comfortable._

Jeno retreats, and so does his comfort. “No.”

Donghyuck seems unapologetically complacent. “You could search the dungeons under the College for spell tomes. Expanding the College’s inventory would leave a good impression.”

“I don’t need your advice.”

It holds water, it’s helpful, but it’s coming from Donghyuck; an insult. How dare he suggest a viable plan, knowing very well it still wouldn’t match his achievement was he to enchant the blade? Donghyuck is already anticipating his victory, and now he’s throwing the leftovers at the hungry, desperate beggar, rubbing his wealth in his face? It’s offensive, derisive – an act of pure malice. 

Jeno looks away to frown at the fantasy ahead. They don’t speak for some time. After the tension loses momentum, Donghyuck pokes his shoulder. When Jeno turns his head like it’s most dreadful, an outstretched hand greets him, offering a pink crystal. A soul gem.

“I gave one to Yukhei as well. Take it.”

Jeno stares at the peace offering before accepting it. It’s dull, lifeless – _would the stone gain a shine if filled?_ Soul gems are naturally-occurring, and they can house the souls of the dead, which are then used for enchanting or charging magical weapons. Humanoids’ souls are too grand for a little stone like this one – black soul gems are used for those – but it could most likely absorb a fragment. Despite that, Donghyuck wouldn’t even need to go on a grueling search for black gems – the majority of them have been destroyed – because the dagger in his possession _is_ a black gem on its own. However, the Soul Trap spell is essential to capturing the energy. Because of its morbid nature, the spell was banned, and there’s no access to its tomes. And even if there was...following this route, the boy would have to _kill_. Or, at best, trap part of another’s soul only for it to never be returned. For the warrant Donghyuck would lie, cheat and he would frame the innocent. Jeno doesn’t want to believe he’d resort to spilling blood, though.

“We should get going. It’s getting late,” says the muse of his rumination.

Jeno agrees.

* * *

The break has come to an unexceptional end. Contrariwise, it was a break Jeno will never forget.

The continuation of College activities has brought everyone back, no matter how far they had managed to escape from the wintry throat of the world. Ravaena is a great example of this – the mildness of Summerset still lingers like a second aura around her. He’s delighted to finally have her fill the solitude of his quarters, and to listen to her speak about the idle days she had spent inside the glass city, but he can’t help but notice shadows in her voice. There’s something there, loitering.

“Have you ever… considered looking into the Silver Order?” she asks.

The organization of the silver sun. The legacy of centuries of burning Altmeri pride. The cold flame had reached his father too, but Jeno got rid of the ashes.

The tone of the conversation is already very unpromising. “No,” he responds, cautious.

“I think you should. The noblemen know of your father’s previous involvement. They’re counting on you to mend your mother’s discernment.”

The straightforwardness takes him by surprise. 

“Mend? How is my mother the one who has to bow to their wishes? Their policy is full of prejudice against other races – my mother would have to be self-sabotaging to adopt it... Perhaps I’ve gone blind, because I truly cannot see where you’re coming from.”

“You are blind,” she agrees. “You’ve changed.” 

“I don’t understand. In what way have I changed?”

Ravaena shakes her head, eyes glued to the ground. “It’s the Imperials; you must cut them. You’re a noble Altmer, but you’re going askew. I beg you to consider the Silver Order before it’s too late.”

Right now, it’s not his dearest friend that’s spitting these venomous accusations and thunderous requests. It’s the ghost of Lady Grayore.

“Your parents must’ve said something to you,” Jeno concludes, because believing otherwise would be hard. “They’re behind all this, aren’t they? I don’t know what they told you, but you’re not losing me.” He gets up, approaches the armchair she’s currently occupying, and bends to get hold of her dainty hands. Fingers caress knuckles reassuringly. “You’re being unreasonable. I can’t cut Renjun – he’s my friend. The same way you are, and I would never abandon you because of someone’s ill opinion.”

She winces, but doesn’t look up. “It’s just–”

Someone raps the wood of his door. His touch slides off. “Come in!”

The sight of the unexpected guest leaves him gaping. Agnae, his sister, is standing at the sill. Her countenance is calm as always, but then she notices the third presence in the room – Ravaena. “Hello there. I’ve come to deliver my youngest brother a letter.”

Jeno paces over to fetch it. It’s from his mother, he inspects.

“Now you won’t have to haul it from the Orc,” his sister jests.

“That’s one dread less, thank you.”

It’s a rather stiff sibling reunion, but that’s to be expected. Still, he should inquire about her trip – just to be polite. “I knew you were coming back after the break, but I’m surprised how early you are.”

Agnae arches a brow. “You knew?”

“I did. Johnny told–”

Oh. _Oh no._ Does she know? Or did Jeno just blurt a secret?

“You met Meanellor? When?”

His eyes loll to the side. He’s a magnificent liar only when it’s himself he’s lying to. When he dares to look at his sister again, her facial expression stuns him momentarily – a penetrating gaze anticipates an untruth.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” She’s kind enough to drop the question. That, or she already knows. “How are _you_ doing, Miss Grayore? I’ve come to learn everyone’s fascinated by the very talented rookie mage.”

Ravaena seems to have suppressed a smile. “Is that so?”

“And I heard you successfully brewed a Ravage Health potion. I was impressed, to say the least.”

Jeno can’t say he’s ever seen his friend be this affected by a compliment before. He leaves the two to their small talk to put the gift away. The brass casket that doesn’t lock has found home on his desk, and Jeno stores his mother’s letter inside.

“Isn’t that father’s?” Agnae notices.

“Why, yes. I… brought it here with me since it no longer served a purpose.”

His sister nods. Her face reads, _I see,_ before her attention returns to Ravaena.

“...I’d love to hear about your training in Morrowind,” the girl speaks to her. “Could I pay a visit, perchance?”

Agnae looks askance. “Miss Grayore, surely you know why that wouldn’t be wise.”

Usually, it’s the third party always assuming they’re horning in on his and Ravaena’s shared time. However, for the first time ever, it’s Jeno who feels like an intruder.

“I’m sorry, what’s happening?” he challenges the unspoken tension. 

Ravaena’s eyes evade Jeno’s. Agnae’s reaction runs counter, and she smiles at her brother, letting him know there won’t be any explanation and that he shouldn’t demand for one. 

“I did what I wanted to do – it’s time I go,” Agnae announces, and then she’s exiting the room the same way she had entered it – unexpectedly. 

Jeno would never pretend he knows his sister well. She’s always been a mystery. Ravaena, on the other hand, has been starting to become one only very recently. The allegation regarding illegal spell tome use, the letters from the College of Whispers, the blatant indifference toward the Silver Order – now, undisclosed involvement with Agnae. Possibly.

Ravaena rises from her seat. “I, too, should go.”

There goes his chance of asking her to continue the thought the arrival of his sister had severed – through the door.

* * *

Words won’t come out. 

He needs to construct a response to his mother, but the letter is as blank as it was ten minutes ago. It’s not that he doesn’t know what to say; it’s the _how_ tripping him up. His ability to articulate himself is paralyzed today.

The conversation concerning the Silver Order is hindering his focus, too. Jeno should probably ask his mother what she makes of the organization, just to make sure he’s willing to die on the right hill.

A series of soft knocking against wood. _At this hour?_ Jeno opens the door to see who’s come to collect his attention.

It’s… Donghyuck? He’s wearing the flush of someone who has just kissed the biting cold goodbye and barged into a warm space. A hand is pressed against his hip, blood trickling down his patchy fingers – the battlefield of two races soused in the crimson liquid. Jeno gives him a look of both perplexity and concern.

“Could you…” the boy musters. His eyes avoid Jeno’s. “I could use some healing.”

(...)

Restoration is warm. It’s beautiful, selfless. A school of magic preferred by his mother, as well as others in the future, ideally. Restoration is that and much more; it’s many things.

But is it two thighs demanding to be worshipped by Jeno’s hands? Is it a body of another pinning him down, grinding against him, reducing him to an implement of a man whose sole purpose is to please, to gratify? Is it the closing of wounds of an enemy? The quenching of his thirst?

That’s what it has become on this serene night. No, even prior to that. The function of this magical remedy had shifted back in the shabby room of the tavern.

Two hands warmer than his body temperature find support on his naked chest. For the first time, Jeno is bare in front of the Bosmer, with nothing but his thoughts to hide. But even those the boy seems to read.

The torrid touch slides down – Donghyuck’s torso reclines, his head tipped back as he clamps low on Jeno’s cock, only to lift his hips again. Every time he repeats the motion, he enthrones himself anew; he’s in absolute control, and Jeno is defenseless under the despotic regime.

_But it’s too much power for a single boy. He should intervene and put an end to the visible struggle, or proclaim himself as his right hand. The necklace which Jeno had been so eager to see encourages him to come closer; it vows to whisper a secret, but only if in proximity._

He listens; his back ascends, his arms twine around Donghyuck, closing the aching distance between their chests. The jade is now winking right at his nose. At first, Donghyuck doesn’t seem too happy about the change, but his face relaxes when Jeno’s hold streams down his spine and presses into his buttocks, impelling him to proceed.

Karma loves retribution. Jeno has kissed a girl he doesn’t love; a girl whom he had wronged mercilessly. And now, while his nemesis is softly gasping above him with fingers buried in his hair, Jeno is pining away from the sudden but intense desire to steal and taste the sex spurred sounds with his own mouth.

He’s delirious.

Before he can act on this bizarre want, he shifts his focus to the golden chain. It had a secret for him, did it not?

“ _Restoration, p-please_ ,” it speaks through the one who wears it. “ _Harm me_.”

Jeno healed the wound the boy had presented him with, but apparently there wasn’t enough warmth to sate him; there wasn’t enough pain. So he obeys: he harms Donghyuck by commanding his magicka to burn the skin of his exposed back. The boy lurches upwards and cries out – thank heavens these walls are thick – as he clutches Jeno’s shoulders so he doesn’t give way.

Magic gelled hands tend the raw burns. There’s no strength in Donghyuck to continue with the to-and-fro, and so he seeks friction by grinding against Jeno’s abdomen helplessly, weakly – he must leverage the feel of Restoration while it’s there.

Granted the enervation and faintness that comes with pleasure, the glint of resistance in the Bosmer’s faded gaze never dims down. “What happened with that girl? Did you talk the following day?” he asks during one of those moments where he meets Jeno’s eyes from above.

Jeno’s expression wrinkles up. _Why ask about this now?_

“No.”

He doesn't want to make light of her dignity again.

“Tell me,” a gentle whisper pleads.

“I won’t.”

Donghyuck’s hand travels up his nape, stopping only at his jaw. The boy then shifts his weight to his knees, pulling himself up, his other free hand lining Jeno’s cock against the gates of the hellish heat. He sinks down. Jeno holds back from groaning out a curse. Barely.

_Don’t look at me like that. Don’t wrench my sworn silence away from me._

His pleas meet unwilling ears. Donghyuck continues to look at him _like that_ as he rolls his hips in the most hypnotizing way until Jeno simply cannot endure it anymore, and he’s put under the spell that will turn his own tongue against him.

“She asked me to kiss her,” he reveals. Is this it? Has he atoned for his sins?

“Did you?” 

“I did.”

And then, Donghyuck’s thumb grazes his bottom lip, hinting at forgiveness. His head dips. His breath blows against Jeno’s.

_Are you going to kiss the trace of sin clean? Replace it with the taste of you? There are no tears covering your lips in sea salt. Are they honeyed, then? Is the sugary sweetness going to cloy my senses and deceive me into thinking there’s something more? Something more than hate? Something more than lust?_

“Restoration. Again.”

Not a kiss. An order. 

Jeno doesn’t deserve forgiveness. He’s a tool of a man whose sole purpose is to please – that’s his penance. 

(...)

He needs to start writing the letter now that he’s alone. The hunter that had stopped by for a quick fix has left the generous mage all healed and well. And weak in the knees.

Words do come out this time. Yet, they’re… not appropriate. They’re not for his mother. Or anyone for that matter – there’s no addressee. But they flow, smooth and uninterrupted, on paper.

_I want your shrewd self to browse this letter without fear or favor and be honest with me – have I lost my mind?_

_My wits seem to be there during the sober of the day. At night hours, however, I've started to willingly open doors for her – there's no blade pressed to my throat this time, and there are no hefty words holding me captive. Her cold gaze pierces. We're enemies. Yet, her embrace is true. I bared my chest before her tonight, in the way I never did around the pale daisies. It felt so inappropriately intimate – I could feel her heart beating as I held her in my arms. I'm afraid I would have kissed her on the lips if it wasn't for the implication the gesture holds._

_Hate shouldn't be ambiguous. It's a monochrome feeling. So why am I finding deeper meaning in the warmth of her body and her earthy songs? We're contrasting. We’re incompatible. Her mere existence conflicts mine. It's absolutely maddening how I'm steadily learning to crave for more._

_I'll deny her next time. I must._

These words flowed on paper fluently, but now that Jeno is reading them, they pour down his shoulders like a freezing waterfall. His fingers are tense with intention to rip the letter in two – he must part from these personified feelings, because he certainly can’t claim them as his own. Fingertips dig into the thin sheet. He must tear it. He must do it before–

_Before what? Before the words grow wings and flutter away into the world? Doesn’t the hand of an author write what the heart dictates?_

Jeno sighs as he puts down the certificate attesting his lunacy. He stashes it away in the brass casket. 

Ravaena was worried about him fraternizing with Imperials. If only she knew who he beds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was thinking about how fun the lorathael family really is. surrounded by what could be considered altmeri supremacy sympathizers, there’s jeno’s mother who wants to work with the imperials. then we got johnny who’s the most non-altmer altmer ever + a leader of a band of thieves. and then there’s jeno who at first glance is the textbook definition of an altmer, but behind the scenes he’s storing lover letters into a box his father had once used for documents sent by an organization that condemns the existence of half-breeds. where do i apply to be part of this family?
> 
> the reason why jeno is referring to donghyuck as "her" in the letter is because he's dissociating from the fact it's donghyuck he's writing about. 
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	13. Your Blade, It Might Be Too Sharp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't have the time to write for a week or so, but i didn't want to leave my lovely readers hanging, so here i'm posting a shorter chapter but a chapter nonetheless

“No, no– You don’t hack like that. ” Dejun shakes his head, lowering his steel sword. “Let me show you the open position one more time.”

Somewhere along the way, the Dark Elf has been promoted from a training buddy to Jeno’s instructor. He’s far from what one could call a swordmaster, yet – according to him – swordsmanship is rooted deep in his family’s history. Jeno doesn’t doubt it; the elf _sounds_ and _looks_ like he knows what he’s preaching.

They swap weapons. “These silver swords are lighter and so swinging them around is easier, as opposed to steel. But that means you also have to put in more strength to really cut through.”

Jaemin, who has agreed to stop by the training fields before the Frozen Hearth, yawns. His side is stuck to the trunk of a lone tree.

“Hit two strikes high as you’re hacking in. Then, hit two broken ones low amining for the knees. Like this,” Dejun withdraws the two swords over his shoulders, putting the instruction into action as he arcs the blows. “And now that the opponent’s blade is fending off where you’re threatening to hit his knees, you wanna strike high again with the other arm, pop the thrust and bring it through– Did you catch that? You’re reversing in order to disarm. You really want to put as much strength into it as possible to oust the opponent’s block. Got it?”

The Altmer’s eyebrows draw together. He nods. “I think so.”

“Attack me.”

Jeno attempts to slash through the shield that is the celerity of two brands, but the steel is quickly overturned, and silver hangs suspended at his throat. “Now I get it,” he heaves out.

“Do you?” the voice of the Imperial pipes in. “Are we wrapping this up, then?”

Jeno glares sidelong at him. _If your amusement is that fatigued, maybe it’s time you moved your own arms a little._ “If you can defeat me in a duel – sure.”

The challenge impels Jaemin to shed the sluggishness and straighten up. “I don’t know how to parry dual-wielding,” he says, but swaggers over anyway.

“I don’t have to dual-wield,” Jeno swaps weapons with Dejun again, and outstretches one toward the Imperial. “We can do it the old-fashioned way.”

Jaemin observes the sword before accepting it. “Have I done something to earn your offense?”

“I just want the son of Commander to demonstrate what he’s capable of.”

Oh, he’s capable. Jaemin is smooth and he stands and swings his blade while maintaining a particular style, the kind that screams _I’m doing this for entertainment and not survival._ Jeno is a much more vehement fighter. There’s also a background bitterness that sharpens his blows. The clash of metal juxtaposes their differences. 

They stay in a crossed sword position; Jeno is certain of his superior strength – he could easily pressure the Imperial’s sword in a bind and create an opening – but he persists with the contact, and tries to sense Jaemin’s next move through feeling the pressure of his blade. He wants to give him a chance. A second chance.

“Did you divulge our plan to Donghyuck?” he winds him with a question instead. It enfeebles the vigor of the opposing blade – Jaemin’s sword falls to his side in short order as Jeno hooks his over and drags it down. His defeat is entirely intentional, and he straightens up as his poise returns to him. Not only does he refuse to fight, he also refuses to capitulate, his eyes leveling the tip of Jeno’s sword that threatens to prod him.

“I did.” A remarkably calm response. Jaemin seems pleased that he was found guilty, even.

“I thought you said you were on my side.”

“I was, and I still am. I’d rather you got the warrant.”

Jeno’s hand droops down. “Then why?”

“There was no harm in telling him. He had promised not to snitch and, you see, I like helping people. You needed a plan, so I gave you one. He needed a reason to corner you – I gave him that too.”

“Are you sure you don’t just like people being indebted to you?”

“Well,” A grin overspreads his face. “Having the Arch-Mage’s golden boy owe me one might come in handy one day, don’t you think?”

 _The Arch-Mage’s golden boy._ This all feels so patronizing. Sure, Jeno shouldn’t have expected loyalty in the first place, but was he wrong to assume Jaemin wouldn’t go to his enemy and lay their plot bare? Could Ravaena be right about Imperials then? Are they as two-faced and slimy as everyone in Summerset depicts them?

“What are you pondering?” the impostor asks. “Are you disappointed? I wouldn’t do anything that would put your eventual victory at risk, Joroth darling.”

Only fleetingly do Jeno’s eyebrows jump up – he won’t entertain another wag who’s poking fun at him. Both the Bosmer and the wretched Imperial are treating him however they please, all the while conspiring behind his back wickedly. His dignity is nothing more than a toy the two share; Jaemin, in all his eagerness to learn about Altmers, experiments with his boundaries, limits and patience, while Donghyuck… Donghyuck uses him for pleasure of a different kind, but doesn’t forget to remind him that, _yes,_ _he’s yards closer to the warrant._

“Is that why you told me to drink during the Collections?” he suddenly remembers.

“I had figured it was something you’d rather go into while not sober. But don’t worry – I don’t know anything,” is how Jaemin tries to reassure, but Jeno has a hard time believing the man who had once interpreted the tension between him and Donghyuck as having sexual undercurrents. And he’s right to doubt the Imperial, because the next words that leave his mouth reveal he’s shockingly aware. “What you did in there is beyond me. Or should I say _who_ you did.”

“Raise your sword,” Jeno orders earnestly as he raises his own. He wants a proper fight and he won’t settle for anything less.

But Jaemin doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even flinch when Jeno launches his blade at him out of pure frustration, only to halt the last second. “I think it's time for us to go to Hearth,” the Imperial’s bare hand comes to sheer off the silver.

The dismissive nonchalance evokes a ‘ _tch’_ from Jeno, and as he walks off, forfeiting his cool, he bumps shoulders with a confused Dejun.

(...)

The Honningbrew mead doesn’t immediately dissolve the saltiness. In front of him, there’s Jaemin stoking up his aggravation by holding his head in his hands and smiling. Jeno gives in and acknowledges the staring by raising his brows in question. 

“I’m just enjoying the moment,” the Imperial explains. “It’s rare that I get to see you angry. Regardless of the hearsay, you’re very composed around me.”

There’s not a drop of remorse in those words.

“I prefer not to let my anger show,” says Jeno. Granted, he’d still fight if Jaemin decided to get serious all of a sudden.

“Around me,” Jaemin finishes the thought. “You don’t seem to hesitate when it’s Donghyuck.”

 _We’re not going to talk about him_ , he thinks and turns to the window instead, sighing. He wouldn’t mind finishing his drink while watching two Nords snarl at each other across the main road, but beside him there’s an expanding smudge of tension that radiates in waves of heat, and it pulls him out, forcing him to take heed of it. The source of it is Dejun, and Jeno looks at his vexed expression just before he’s slapping the table with the flat of his palm. “You bastards! You can’t keep me in the dark like this! Donghyuck this, Donghyuck that. If you’re going to keep mentioning it in my presence, it’s my business too!”

“Shouldn’t you be worried about how to get Ravaena’s attention?” Jaemin puts out the blaze real fast. The elf’s face twitches – he withdraws. “You should ask for a dance at First Planting. It’d be rude for her to reject you after you so heroically saved her.”

On the seventh of March, the people of Tamriel celebrate First Planting, symbolically sowing the seeds for the autumn harvest. It is a festival of fresh beginnings, both for the crops and the men and women of this land. Neighbors are reconciled in their disputes, resolutions are formed, bad habits are dropped, and the diseased are cured. It’s the only time of the year when outsiders can visit the College of Winterhold and ask for the blessing of Restoration proffered by the mages.

“He saved her? When?” Jeno asks.

“When we separated in that cave. The machine was about to swing at her when Dejun conjured a dagger and temporarily clogged the machinery. She never told you?”

“No.”

“Oh. I guess Miss Grayore didn’t think much of it then.” He looks like he’s about to erupt with laughter. Jeno glances at Dejun. Poor elf. They’re both unfortunate, having to feed this social sadist’s needs.

“I’m thinking of volunteering as a healer at the festival,” he discloses with a shrug.

“Why’s that? Feeling charitable?”

“I’ve had the opportunity to practice Restoration recently. I’d like to see how far I can take it.” And he knows testing it out on Donghyuck wouldn’t be wise; the risk of his magicka bailing out on him is too great.

“I see. I assume you picked Restoration then.”

Jeno confirms with a nod. After the break, the apprentices had to decide on which school of magic to further pursue, given the spells are gradually getting more demanding, both time and effort-wise. Jeno chose Restoration, the reason being his mother’s legacy and wishes. And the beauty of it he’s come to understand.

* * *

Most of February has been a disorienting fusion of normality and delirium. During the day, Jeno exercises his magicka, cultivates dual-wielding – his coordination has improved exponentially – and spends his free hours vegetating. His friendship with Ravaena has returned to something more familiar, although hints of discernable inner conflict still appear occasionally. 

The nights are different. Jeno has learned to anticipate. Quietly, so it wouldn’t awaken the voice of reason that falls dormant together with the sun. And then, the softest sound of someone knocking thunders down and disturbs the stillness, blurring every strict line he had drawn that morning.

_Donghyuck is using you, but you are, too, using him._

The irritation he stockpiles throughout the day manifests in touches, thrusts, spells that hurt and comfort respectively. He wreaks vengeance that way. Donghyuck welcomes it – he’s the casket for anger filled thoughts that never show up in his letters.

Speaking of which… He dedicates one to each night they share. He’s a novice poet, writing under the pseudonyms of _The Biggest Fool_ and _Donghyuck’s Manservant._ The two titles are synonymous, yet Jeno is suddenly too indecisive whenever the question ‘ _but do I spend more time fooling around or serving the boy’_ pops up. So, he continues to write under the two pseudonyms as if his identity has split. He even thinks in contradictions.

Jeno’s second work ever reads _, II._ _...it’s a good thing that we’re enemies. It’s good that she’s a bosmer, and I’m an altmer. These opposing dynamics ensure we don’t cross the line. This marble reality is what binds the fright threshing in my heart._

****_V. I’m still trying to shut her down. To push her away. But her pull is too strong, and every attempt of resistance is futile. Addictions are for flawed humans only — an altmer that respects himself and his ancestry should never partake of an impulse._

_However, I’m slipping further from the light. I’m falling down a ditch without means of making it out alive as my hands reach out helplessly. I’m an addict, and it’s her frozen love I’m addicted to. I receive my dose, and then I’m left craving for more and more each time. Louder, more melodic songs. Closer; there can’t be a gap between us. That is until physical isn’t close enough. But what if physical is the only option? I look into her eyes when she’s under me – some kind of fog is glossing over them. There’s something standing in the way, an obstacle preventing her from reaching closer. Does it make a difference that it’s my body pressed to hers? It’s unfair. It’s unfair because it matters. It has to be her body that I love, or else I’m discontent._

The seventh letter he had to destroy, dispose of. He had accidentally used Donghyuck’s name, startling himself in the process. It was a scare, one that still prevents him from picking up the quill again. He’s back to square one, harboring that which brews inside of him.

* * *

Jeno is adopting a spell at the Arcanaeum when someone’s clutch surprises him from behind and cleaves the stream of magicka. He is ready to glare daggers at the perpetrator, but ditches the urge upon identifying it’s Renjun. The Imperial sits down across from him, beaming.

“Hey,” he whispers, laying down what looks like a spell time on the tabletop. “There’s no space left. Hope you don’t mind.”

“...I don’t. You just severed the bond.”

“Oh, sorry,” his friend smiles sheepishly, rubbing the side of his neck. “I got too excited after I saw you here. I _really_ didn’t want to bring the book back to my room. Is this fused with a magicka potion?” he points a finger at the goblet on Jeno’s right.

The Altmer nods.

“Neat,” Renjun strains his neck to check what the deep scarlet liquid is. “Nevermind. _Bleh_ , I’ll never understand how you can drink wine.”

“I can drink almost anything.”

“Even Nord mead?”

The infamous Nord mead is what Jaemin had made him swill during the Collections. It’s the taste that was clinging to his tongue when he embraced Donghyuck for the first time.

“I can stomach it,” he decides right then.

Renjun only shakes his head in disbelief as he dips his quill in ink.

“What spell is that?” Jeno inquiries. As strange as it is to think about, they’re now studying under different schools of magic. His friend has chosen Illusion.

“Clairvoyance. Yours?”

“Steadfast Ward.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s armor that either reduces or negates spell damage and it...” Jeno tries to explain, but then, past his friend’s shoulder, he notices the librarian zeroing in on him. “...I’ll elaborate later.” 

His attention dips to his own book. This spell tome is a personal diary of an Altmeri mage Calcelmo that lived back in the Fourth Era. Jeno only flipped through the first pages, but it seems to have been an adventurer’s journal before it took a startling turn. Somewhere along the line, the Altmer had fallen in love with a Redguard woman. A human. At first, her name briefly comes up here and there, a mere element of the elf’s documented quest fore it gradually supersaturates the text. It was no longer a testimony of an ambitious sorcerer, but a tribute to the woman claiming his heart. Jeno’s train of thought derails and he forgets what he’s supposed to be doing for a second, getting lost in these words that carry the pain of unreasonable, yet unrequited love inside. The last page is torn, but a surviving poem graces the remaining half.

_My lover's heart is numbing stone_

_That hides in ice beneath our sight._

_So some decry, "It is not there,"_

_While others whisper, "Yet, it might."_

_Though stone is born from fevered ash,_

_Once formed it yields no whiff of heat._

_So too, her heart betrays no love,_

_Nor comforts those embracing it._

It feels like someone just drove a stake through Jeno’s heart. He can recognize a fellow fool when he sees one, and he can appreciate and admire the work of an adept poet. The insanity had aged the man’s heart – it started with a visible struggle, a fierce war between reason and want, just to lead up to a funereal confession. Acceptance that gave nothing in return.

But Jeno would never stoop so low as to _accept_ a position of utter despair and desperation. That’s not the ending inscribed in his fate. If it ever threatened to get this serious, he’d cut Donghyuck off like an arm that bears poison, even if that meant he’d remain incapacitated until the end of his time.

Jeno’s fingers graze the dried ink, his other hand transferring the stanza onto a naked paper. The bond is restored, although faint. For a moment, he wonders how the late poet would react if he found out his anguish had been turned into magical instruction. His mind keeps on drawing parallels against his will: _three_ _hundred years from now, will someone scare up his letters and lock the power of Restoration inside? Will the same spells that soothed the boy’s aching skin shine through the written words?_

He looks up. There’s a glow of joy embowering his friend. Jeno would ask, but he doesn’t want to interrupt the adoption process. Luckily for him, Renjun meets his eyes and puts his quill down, glancing over his shoulder to check if it’s safe to blabber.

“I don’t even have to be here, technically,” he says.

“Why?”

“The Arch-Mage is going on a week-long research expedition on Thursday and he’s chosen me as the person who will document the process. Isn't that crazy? I’m allowed to learn this spell after the fact, but look at me being a good student and doing things on time.”

That is a bit crazy, Jeno can’t lie, but he’s also very aware Renjun is Donghyuck’s friend, and Donghyuck is the Arch-Mage’s _golden boy._ There might’ve been a little bird that landed on the mage’s shoulder and chirped Renjun’s name in his ear.

“Are the students training under him going too?” 

“That’s a very roundabout way of asking if Donghyuck is going,” Renjun calls him out immediately. “Yes, he’s going.”

“Okay. What’s the object of research?”

“So, there’s a forest right outside the border with Morrowind and…”

All six feet and extra rise up from the seat at the counter in the back. Jeno tunes out, his eyes following the Orc – the danger – that is drawing nearer. He knows what’s coming – his hand is swiftly sweeping the goblet off the table and he downs the wine in three gulps.

A moment later, the tall doors to the Arcanaeum close right in front of their noses – in slow-motion, since the other students inside can’t be distubred by the noise of them shutting. They’ve been kicked out. Renjun is a chatterbox, Jeno knows that, and he still wound him up. He’s only got himself to blame.

“My first time getting kicked out.”

Jeno sends a skeptical look the Imperial’s way.

“This year,” Renjun clarifies. “How much did you hear?”

“Um… A forest in Morrowind.”

They exit into the courtyard.

“Yeah, so, a forest in Morrowind. The locals have been writing to the Arch-Mage because of the magical activity they’ve been noticing there. We’ll be researching that.”

“Who else is going?”

“Ten.”

“That’s it?”

“Me, Donghyuck, the Arch-Mage and Ten. The other scholars weren’t too enthusiastic about the whole thing so it’s just us four.”

Renjun comes to an abrupt stop, clinging onto his arm and in result pulling him to a stop as well.

“Wait a minute,” he narrows his eyes. “You’re not thinking about joining, are you?”

Jeno looks upwards for a moment. It’s a clear, sunny day.

“No. Why should I?”

No, really, why should he? Taking the context into account, they will probably be spending at least one night sleeping in the forest, on the cold and hard ground. No wonder the others expressed no want to partake. Renjun must be the only excited soul among them – leaving Winterhold means leaving the grueling training behind, even if just for a week.

Renjun lets up his hold. They continue treading toward their tower.

“I don’t know. Since Donghyuck is going, I imagine you’d want to go just to prove something and then turn the whole trip into a competition.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of going,” is what Jeno preaches.

* * *

Jeno, however, doesn’t practice what he preaches. A safe conclusion to make considering he’s standing in front of the Arch-Mage’s quarters, and he’s come here with one purpose and one purpose only: to present himself as an eligible candidate for the research expedition.

Prior to this, he visited and spoke to his Destruction master Faralda. She was the one to suggest he went straight to the man himself. She also scratched an itch he didn’t know he had by filling him in on the topic of the College of Whispers. There are, indeed, only imponderable whispers currently. The organization has been silent. One of the major fears the woman possessed was that the reason for this might be their potential success in the southwestern front. In other words, their quiet fraternization with the Summerset Isles. It was a valid concern, but Jeno put it on the back burner. First, he’ll receive his mother’s letter regarding the Silver Order, and only then will he spin his own wheel thinking about it.

Jeno dares to knock on the door while staring at the lock he had once picked. When it opens for him, so does the view inside. Except this time the natural light infiltrates the room through the tiny windows and the little garden inside looks considerably sadder. Or maybe it’s the fact Jeno has seen the fanciest fantasy of them all – Blackreach, the underground city of forgotten structures and giant mushrooms – and it’d be hard to leave an impression on him now. He assumes the position of a privileged guest once more. As absurd as it sounds, and as sophisticated as the Arch-Mage is, the background of dancing flashes of light and streaks of muted colors suited Donghyuck a lot more.

“What brings you here?” the Arch-Mage smiles at him, kindly.

* * *

The evening before the expedition to Morrowind, he climbs the narrow, spiral staircase from the Hall of Elements to the Arcanaeum, the spell tome tucked under an armpit, and he bumps into Donghyuck. They both cease their movement. 

“I heard you’re going to Morrowind,” the boy is first to break the silence.

“You heard right.”

“I also heard you were the one to reach out and ask for the spot. Could’ve just asked me. I would’ve spoken to Aren.”

“The Arch-Mage,” Jeno corrects the lack of politeness.

“That’s what I said – Aren.”

Silence. Donghyuck’s eyes are sporting the glint of mischief that Jeno is well-acquainted with.

“Right. Pardon my insolence. I must be getting hard of hearing.”

The matched energy brings out the smile that’s been hiding, and it takes a good five seconds for Jeno to recognize the corners of his mouth are facing upwards as well. They drop down instantly. “If you’ll excuse me– I have to return this,” he flashes the book before the Bosmer in hopes of him moving aside.

And Donghyuck does, he slides closer to the wall, plastering his back against it in order to clear the way.

“See you tomorrow,” he says when Jeno advances past him. “Or… tonight?” 

“Tomorrow. It’s important to get a good night’s rest before a trip like this one.”

The Bosmer seems to scrutinize the response before nodding. They separate.

Jeno has learned to anticipate. Tonight is no different. His lucidity lingers longer than usual, keeping him awake and wondering. His bed sheets feel cold without another’s body branding them, almost uncomfortably so. He waits for a miracle to unfold – Donghyuck showing up despite Jeno telling him not to. Needless to say, miracles are for unbelievers. And he – he believes. He believes in Donghyuck’s warmth almost as much as he believes in the lack thereof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upcoming: donghyuck and jeno going on an adventure together, renhyuck bantering with each other, and so much more.
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	14. Be There When My Reality Drowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100k., everyone... 100k.
> 
> just to put things into perspective, the previous chapter was 4k, meanwhile this one is 12k. bon appetit.

> _“Morrowind is the province in the northeast corner of Tamriel, and the home of the Dunmer, the Dark Elves. It is dominated by the large island of Vvardenfell and its centerpiece, the ash-spewing Red Mountain, but also includes territory on the continental mainland. The Inner Sea separates Vvardenfell from the mainland, and the Sea of Ghosts lies to the province's north.”_

They set out on a particularly windy morning. Jeno has to squint – not because it’s snowing, but because his eyes feel too exposed to the cold, and his eyelashes, as if alive, flicker in a quest not to freeze. On days like these, the white sparkles like powdered diamonds, and every exhaled breath is chimney smoke.

They travel on horseback, and it takes them slightly more than half a day to reach the city of Windhelm, their first stop. The port city lies in the vicinity of the coast in northeastern Skyrim, near the Dunmeth Pass to Morrowind – the main pass and one of the few traversable roads leading through the Velothi Mountains between the two provinces, thus serving as a significant avenue of trade for Windhelm.

The oldest city in Skyrim – possibly the oldest city of Men on Tamriel that has withstood the test of time – looks the part: to connect Windhelm to land, to the southern river edge, there is a large stone bridge towering over the river that safeguards the city built in a pocket area of the Winterhold Mountains. Impressively tall and ridiculously thick walls engridle the inside, but aren’t able to fit all of its residents; some are stuck out on the docks.

The city is composed of three quarters. Passing through the first gate, Jeno and the others enter the central district, the Stone quarter. It contains the marketplace, the most important shops, and the city's inn which they immediately set their sights on and soon visit in order to freshen up, but not before leaving their horses in the care of the local stables.

Candlehearth Hall. The innkeeper greets them, letting them in on a little story: _the building was originally home to a great warrior named Vundheim from the early Fourth Era. When he died, his son, Deroct, lit a candle above the hearth in his honor. Since that day, the candle has never gone out and as such the inn owes its name to this phenomenon._

Jeno quickly finds out the city is substantially populated by the Dark Elves, which makes sense considering it’s bordering Morrowind. Still, the Arch-Mage is a Dunmer himself, and so Jeno asks him the reason over the cold mead they’re all sharing.

“After Red Mountain erupted, many of them fled to this city in search of refuge,” the man explains. “It’s unfortunate that my brothers had been mistreated by the locals and relegated to the run-down Gray quarter, but some progress has been made at the order of the current jarl. I respect the man, and that’s the reason we’ll be seeing him today.”

“Is that why we’re not eating here?” asks Ten. He looks at the students, smirking. “I’ve visited the Palace of the Kings with the Arch-Mage before. All I’m going to say is – expect sumptuous nosh-up. The jarl likes to make his wealth known.”

The promise calls for a collective growl of their stomachs, and they don’t waste much time in the inn afterwards. Jeno had noticed the large castle at the far end of the nobles district, as well as the city itself, and is pleased he’ll have the opportunity to take a closer look. When the time to meet the jarl comes, they step into the main hall which runs the length of the palace. A long table dominates the space, together with a throne set on a plinth. The grand seat is carved from a large piece of stone and has a weapon plaque carved above it, two swords behind a shield with the bear of Windhelm on it. A deep cyan theme runs the décor: cyan carpets, cyan banners, cyan cloth covering the throne.

The jarl is slumped in the seat, relaxed; a position very appropriate of a ruler. This city, along with the entire region, depends on his clemency. The air jingles when he rises, the keys attached to his waistband hitting the metal chest plate. A classic Nord: rough-faced, sporting a ginger beard, decked out in sturdy armor and heavy furs. 

“Savos Aren,” he announces his guest’s name in a gravelly voice.

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” the Arch-Mage echoes the gesture, smiling. The two men bump their chests into a familiar hug a moment later, the sound of the Nord’s hearty chuckling ringing out. “Is it okay with you, my friend, if we barge in for the night?”

“You’re already here, aren’t ya? Take a pew!” the jarl motions to the table.

The scholar didn’t lie when he said they’d be regaled generously. At the request of Ulfric, the table is set in minutes – it’s about dinnertime, and the kitchen maids must’ve been preparing for it already. The abundance of different warm smells fills Jeno’s nose, and none of them clash, only intertwine into a single heavenly aroma.

Across from him, at the other side of the table, Donghyuck plants his palms onto the tabletop and closes his eyes. The action piques his interest and that’s where Renjun comes in, inclining closer to whisper the answer to a question that was never openly asked. “Remember the book I once picked up at the Arcanaeum? A Dance in Fire?”

Jeno blinks, eyes narrowing.

“The one about Bosmeri culture,” his friend adds.

 _Oh, yes._ He nods.

“I read that Bosmers thank their deity Y'ffre before meals by facing their hands toward the earth. Giving back in a way.”

The Altmer mouths an ‘ _oh_ ’.

“Oh and I also read the followers of the Green Pact had cannibalistic tendencies. There was a requirement to eat fallen enemies before three days passed. The practice diminished though.”

Now that’s something he really didn’t need to know. He looks at the roasted meat in front of him with a set of new eyes. They enjoy the food in silence – _some_ enjoy, some are left wondering how someone could ever pick at a corpse – and tableware clinks against the plates.

The Arch-Mage inquires about the current state of Windhelm.

“Windhelm’s sound. Flourishing. Nothin’ could crack it.” Positive news, yet the Nord’s face hardens. “But there’s been some rascality cropping up in Skyrim as a whole. Bandits are looting private property. What’s more, they’re looting temples, those damned blasphemers!”

“That’s right,” Savos Aren sighs, “they’ve recently ravaged the Shrine of Azura.”

Jeno drags his gaze upwards, to the Imperial scholar who only allows their eyes to make contact for a brief, inconspicuous moment, and then he’s listening to the jarl condemning the thieves, face betraying nothing but innocent attentiveness.

“My men will flail those nasty bastards alive!” the Nord spits. 

Donghyuck’s eyebrows twitch faintly and he turns away from the head position of the table, leaning back to hide behind Ten. His eyes compress to a close, lips pursing, but when his posture straightens and he notices Jeno staring, his ironed guise bursts. The boy grabs the nearest handkerchief, replacing the treacherous laughter with a feigned show of choking. “I’m sorry, sorry–” he apologizes, inserting a fake cough here and there. 

Ten lands a couple of smacks across the Bosmer’s back. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Drink it down! You gotta drink it down,” the jarl’s voice booms.

“I’m okay now, sir–”

Insistent, like all men in power are, the Nord snaps his fingers and mead bottles find their way on the table. When all is calm, the Arch-Mage turns to his left where Ten is seated. “What do you think?”

“I think the bandits are mages,” surprisingly enough, the scholar makes the observation without delay.

“Certainly,” the elf agrees. “The guards that had been struck down said they did not sense any threat up until the very last moment. There were no signs of a scuffle either. It’s like the perpetrator could use… magic.”

Puffing, the Nord seems to be rattling his thick skull for connections. “The College?” he digs one out.

“I wouldn’t suspect my colleagues, nor my children,” the Arch-Mage dismisses, smiling. “I’m merely a learned mage, so I’m afraid I won’t be of any help to the investigation, but I wish good luck on you and your men.”

  
  


(...)

After the hearty welcome, they’re led to the southern section of upstairs where the guests’ rooms are located. The Arch-Mage gets the room that had once belonged to the local court wizard – before the ban of magic, working for a jarl there would be his personal mage who researched and studied magic on behalf of the palace.

With the exception of the Arch-mage leaving to catch an early train to dreamland, and Renjun disappearing inside his assigned bedroom, they’re huddled inside the communal dining room. Jeno loiters around the cupboards, while Donghyuck and Ten are sat on the padded bench in front of a lit fireplace, watching the fire caper cheerfully.

“He didn’t have to call us his children. I feel bad,” the scholar brings up.

“It doesn’t get better,” Donghyuck shrugs. “He’s the head of our College and a great wizard, but he’s a very naïve man. What a paradox... I thought it was pretty funny though, the Nord cursing.”

Ten smiles. “He’ll flail us alive, remember?”

“Us? I never got accepted into your little band of thieves. Don’t group me in.”

Jeno hooks a finger on the spine of one of the books leaning inside the cupboard, drawing it out. “You might want to keep your confessions down. There’s guards outside these doors,” he joins their overly careless conversation.

“You’re right” Donghyuck concurs, the speed of it causing the bells of suspicion to ring in Jeno’s head faintly, because Donghyuck _never_ agrees with him so effortlessly. “We really shouldn’t talk about how the three of us were present at the time and place of the–”

A book promising to plank on his head concludes the raised tone, a scant centimeter separating it from the fluff of golden brown hair. Donghyuck keeps his head at a downward tilt as he looks up through his lashes, and a lick of a coy smile covers his lips. “...And this is where I hush,” they move, barely, and Jeno momentarily forgets there’s additional presence in the room. 

“I’m glad you get it.”

A loud yawn shepherds their attention to the one that lets it out. Renjun reappears, a book and a quill occupying his hands. That’s right, he’s here to eternalize this trip by transferring the experience into written format. He pulls out a chair and sits at the previously empty dining table. Jeno joins him.

The cover of the book he’s chosen is accoutred in imprinted leather. In the title page there live the words, _Lost Legends, by Talsgar the Elder, Archivist of Windhelm._

_The history of Skyrim is vast, predating even the most ancient records of Man and Mer. Much has been lost, fallen to the ravages of war or the turning of the ages. But nothing is ever truly forgotten. Where no records exist, legends and folktales offer us a key to the past, a way to piece together truths half-remembered in the minds of men._

_For generations, the people of Windhelm have told whispered tales of the Pale Lady, a ghostly woman who wanders the northern marshes, forever seeking her lost daughter. Some say she steals children who wander astray, others that her sobbing wail strikes dead all those who hear it._

A chilling tale, but it fails to engage him – a peaceful conversation takes place on the couch in front of the fire, and it blurs the meaning of the text on the next few pages.

“...this?” Ten asks.

“Yeah,” Donghyuck answers.

“Johnny and I _found_ it. It’s enchanted. Do you want to try it on?”

“It’s fine, I can feel the energy from here. I can’t wear silver anyway.”

“Why not?”

“It makes my skin itch. Can’t really wear any metal besides gold.”

“Oh, wow, an allergy?”

“Probably.”

“Must be annoying for you, but that’s sort of poetic, don’t you think? Being able to wear gold exclusively.”

“I don’t know about poetic, but I like to think of myself as expensive. Above the average person, at least.”

“Oi, oi,” Ten laughs. “Talk about confidence.”

Gold. Metallic honey dripping from patchy fingers and hanging from a slim neck. Beads of sweat wetting the skin like dew that snares the warm light of candles. Gold suits Donghyuck like nothing else, or maybe it’s Donghyuck who suits gold.

Out of nowhere, a hand appears to trace the edge of the table like a manifestation of his thoughts – deja vu, but this time Jeno looks up. Much to his surprise, another stare doesn’t mirror his; perhaps Donghyuck didn't mean to attract Jeno’s attention, then. The boy takes the adjacent seat to Renjun, and he watches the quill move, loop the ink into cursive letters, his face scrunching up. “Your handwriting is hideous.”

Renjun finishes the sentence in only one dip. “Your face is hideous,” he parries, expression unmoving.

“I was joking. Your handwriting is pretty.”

“You know I’m not going to repeat after you,” he starts another paragraph with a curly ‘K’. “You’re not tricking me into calling you pretty.”

“That’s fine. Jeno thinks I’m pretty.”

Spotlight drenches him cold as both students point their eyes to his addled face. Donghyuck is flat unconcerned as he prepares to watch Jeno maneuver around the explosive he just dropped, while Renjun’s eyes inspect blankly. The Imperial shifts back to writing in the end, and to Jeno’s relief, he doesn’t buy the statement. “I’m sure he does.”

They preserve eye-contact – Donghyuck’s mouth ticks up before he averts his attention to the inky words Renjun’s hand is putting down. “Windhelm,” he says in a minute’s time.

“Hm? Yeah, I know.”

“You wrote Winterhold.”

“Where? – _Don’t touch_. You’ll smudge.”

Donghyuck retracts his hand. “Fourth line from the top. Just cross it off once.”

“Ah, _damn it_ ,” Renjun curses. “I know. Go back to sitting there if you’ve come here just to police me.”

“ _I_ recommended you to the Arch-Mage. It’d be embarrassing for _me_ if you did a bad job. I think I can police you.”

 _Right_ , there’s a book lying open and waiting for him. That’s what he should focus on, not the raillery which doesn’t in the slightest concern him. Jeno goes back to reading.

_But some tales prove far harder to analyze. Among scholars, perhaps the best known is the 'Forbidden Legend' of the Arch-mage Gauldur._

_In the dawning days of the First Era, the story goes, there lived a powerful wizard by the name of Gauldur. Wise and just, he was well-known in the courts of King Harald and the jarls of Skyrim, and his aid and counsel were sought by Man and Mer alike._

Does he think Donghyuck is pretty? – an intrusive thought emerges and stays aloft until Jeno defers by acknowledging it. He tries to keep his quick glances of observation a secret.

 _Objectively,_ in the purest sense of the word, Donghyuck is moderately attractive. He never had the opportunity to properly view him in this scrutinizing manner – there was always the prickling sensation of pique running in the background whenever he looked at the boy, and so in his mind's eye Donghyuck has had the face of someone he wanted to punch rather than secretly admire. Jeno had dreamed of battering his arrogant pout, but then the unexpected happened and he began to _unwillingly_ long for the boy’s body. Donghyuck’s face has already topped out the meter of punchable in the past and the quality is slowly decreasing, because if he pushes ten seconds looking at him, the memory of how Donghyuck’s face _can_ look when he is blitzed out and mewling shows up. During that fragrant moment he thinks the Bosmer is the prettiest elf to walk the land of Tamriel–

 _Breathe in_ , Jeno tells himself. If he traipses down that route, it’ll be a hassle trying to fall asleep tonight. He doesn’t want nor need to think about the Bosmer past entering his bedroom. Breathe in and continue reading.

_And then he was murdered. Some say one of his sons killed him, others that King Harald, jealous of his power, gave the order. But Gauldur's three sons fled into the night, pursued by a company of Harald's best warriors and the Lord Geirmund, the king's personal battlemage._

_A great chase ensued, from the wilds of the Reach to the glacial north. One brother is said to have perished in the ruins of Folgunthur, at the foot of Solitude. The others were run to ground soon thereafter. And once it was done, King Harald ordered every record of their murders destroyed, and Gauldur's name and deeds were struck from the rolls of history._

_Even today, few sources remain, and no bard will tell the tale. But perhaps the truth yet remains in some ancient ruin, waiting to be unearthed. For nothing is ever truly forgotten._

“Well, I’ll go,” the scholar leaves his post. “Don’t stay up for too long – we’re rising early tomorrow morning.”

Jeno doesn’t hang on the words – the other two students do, disappearing soon after – and learns about another alleged story of an ancient king who rallied his people and drove back the armies of Cyrodiil with a flaming sword. He doesn’t finish this one, though, his mind cutting in to backtrack and shove him in a corner where he can’t run backward, and forward is where he’ll awaken. _A fair share of his sober state deems Donghyuck pretty, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that truth._ Under the sun there is no bigger sell-out than this.

He can’t deny the physical pull – he’s attracted to Donghyuck sexually. Sexually he can understand to some degree; a bodily desire is beyond rational thought. Sexually, he therefore, can accept; the letters he has written tell no lie. Sometimes his thoughts cross into the dangerous zone of emotions opposed to instinct, causing his writing to bloom, and he victoriously scares himself to a halt. But all this he can pin to post-sex stupor. He cannot do that when he’s perceiving Donghyuck under any other light and reaching the conclusion that what he’s seeing is beauty, unfiltered and free of deceit.

In the minutest dramatic sense, Jeno realizes: this is it, the end is here, his correctness has finally expired. He has hit rock-bottom. He thinks Donghyuck is… 

Pretty… A Bosmer that flaunts a blade of venom strung words.

Pretty… A foe that stops at nothing to humiliate him.

Pretty… A boy who can only wear gold.

Pretty… 

And Jeno wants to kiss that prettiness, badly. Achingly.

  
  


(...)

  
  


The morning is wiser than the evening – what Jeno wants isn’t what Jeno should do. What Jeno wants is the last thing he should be focusing on, actually, and the venerated morning blesses him with newly established strength and wisdom. Rock-bottom is despairingly cold only when there’s no rays of hope breaching through.

Just like Ten had informed them, they rose early and didn’t stall, stepping out into the city. The marketplace is bustling with people, alive – the residents of Windhelm fear no frost or wind – and they have to wade their way through to reach the gates. Jeno tends to a few stalls, but ultimately nothing catches his eye, nor is he in need to put extra weight on his mount’s back. He’s walking in the back behind the rest of their crew, or so he thought… _Where’s Donghyuck?_

He looks around, eyes scrabbling the travelers, locals and others until they spot the Bosmer; his back is turned to Jeno, and his head hangs low. The name sits atop his tongue. Jeno will shout it, just not yet – he’ll get closer first so the gushing stream of babble doesn’t wash it away. And so the name sits atop his tongue, pouring out through the slightest parting of his lips when Donghyuck crouches and reveals that, amid the fog of public chatter, he’s talking to someone. Not just anyone, but a little girl that looks no older than six. Not just any girl, but…

His steps, they slow down involuntarily. The child’s face is… a battle of two races, human albino versus elven ash. Half Men, half Dunmer; the evidence is so sharp, impressed on her skin, around her doe eyes and pout. Jeno swallows. When he gets close enough for the child to notice, she winces, as if in pain. Fear enhances her features, and it takes a lagged moment for it to really sink in – _the source of her fear is him, Jeno._

Donghyuck whips round, a pucker between his brows, his eyes welled up. Unsheathed emotion, so, so vulnerable, and even a glimpse of it is overwhelming, capable of splitting skin if touched.

“It’s okay,” his ungloved hand – a sign of peace that reads _I’m just like you –_ anxiously comes to dance around the girl’s shoulder, never really sealing contact. “He’s a good Altmer, I promise.”

A promise so powerful it silences the buzz of the square. _A good Altmer._ In the eye of the beholder, he is, without a doubt, a good Altmer. He’s a good Altmer, exemplary even, when it’s his father he parallels. He’s unrivaled when Lady Grayore seldom praises him. Lately, Jeno’s been rolling down the stairs that continuously steepen. _You’ve changed_ , Ravaena had alarmed him, _you’re going askew._

Now, Donghyuck, his nemesis, a meagre Bosmer – the boy he wants to kiss – is talking to the frightened child and declaring him good, with so many interpretations flapping in the wind like loose ends. What meaning does _good_ assume in Donghyuck’s custody? A far cry from the one it had this entire time. Is good – harmless? Is it ‘inoperative’? Somewhere, somehow, Jeno’s existence had become a danger to this small child, one that needs to be affirmed. Is good... good?

The girl is severely underdressed for the weather, but the cold doesn’t shake her, at least not visibly. Her appearance would be best described as _unattended_. 

Donghyuck pats his hips down, but doesn’t seem to find what he’s searching for. Jeno gets the message and, in quick succession, detaches the little coin purse from the belt of his robes, holding it out for the boy to take. Donghyuck stares at it, then up at him, then at the purse again. He takes it. After pulling out a few golden coins, he offers them to the girl. She’s reluctant to accept their goodwill at first, but Donghyuck reassures her.

“Don’t show you have these to the kids you don’t think you can trust. And the adults. Especially adults – they’ll want to take it from you. Okay?” He stands up. “I know you don’t want to return, but you’ll get sick if you stay here. If you fall, they win. Don’t let them win.”

The girl clutches the coins to her chest, nodding earnestly, a strength beyond her years lighting up her eyes as if Donghyuck just passed her the torch.

“Go,” he smiles a sad smile. 

The girl listens and runs off, occasionally turning around to give the travelers another look as she carries Donghyuck’s smile away with her like it's a keepsake. A breath gets pushed out in a shudder, and for an instant, the Bosmer looks like he might swoon. Another breath brings color back to his complexion.

“Let’s go,” Donghyuck says. They turn their feet toward the gate.

“You know her?” It might be a little too soon to pry, but Jeno knows the moment they reach the others will also be the moment the doors close, and they might close permanently – no skill, no matter how consummate, will pick the lock then. As accursed as it is, he needs to pry while the wound still gapes and bleeds information.

“No.”

“Why’d you tell her to hide the coins from her parents? They might need the money.”

It’s hard to judge when he can only see his profile, but he’s pretty sure Donghyuck just stood from the slump of dejection. “She’s from the orphanage,” he says like the words taste pungent on his tongue. “I can tell you right now the adults there don’t give a shit. Not even that – they’d be _ecstatic_ if she was to disappear and there was one less mouth to feed.” Anger. A layer of attempted composure glazes the words, but underneath that – anger. “You heard what the Arch-Mage said: the Nords here are cross with the Dunmer. I wouldn’t be surprised if her mother wanted to get rid of her as soon as she was born. Can you imagine the shame she must’ve felt when she found out she conceived a half-breed, especially when the two sides hate each other? I can.” He breathes out a satirical laugh. “The girl didn’t even want to take the money. You know why?” Donghyuck faces him. A raw stare. “Because kindness, for us half-breeds, comes at a price. There’s _always_ a catch.”

All of this is uncharted waters, new torrents of information rinsing these concepts afresh in his mind. It’s too much to take in in one bite, and then there’s the fact Jeno has never seen Donghyuck exhibit so much emotion, even if it’s dense. “But there was no catch,” he utters. “This time, I mean.”

Donghyuck thinks before answering. “I suppose. But that’s a one-time miracle, not the daily reality.”

“Someone might adopt her. After all, you were adopted.”

He should’ve gone over the sentence before letting it outside to see the bleak sun, but he didn’t, and so consequences come like an avalanche kicked off by a witless shout _._ The muscles in Donghyuck’s face relax; the undemonstrative version of him is back, and it’s ten times scarier than when his expression was edged with frills of anger.

“Why are you acting like you know me or my situation?” he asks passively, however the confrontation still pokes out. “You don’t know anything.” After a short minute, he adds; “I must be out of my fucking mind to talk about this with an Altmer.”

“...A good Altmer, right?”

The Bosmer doesn’t say anything to the brave correction, head turned to the opposing side of the road so Jeno can’t see him. The time has run out – they’ve caught up to the rest of their crew – and there’s nothing he’d like to add to what's been said either way.

Whether it’s their one-sided argument, or the odd encounter in general, it mars Donghyuck’s mood for the rest of the day. Compared to the day of departure, the boy doesn’t spark nearly as many conversations – when he does, the Altmer can only dream about being included – and it’s not rare that Jeno clocks him brooding or spacing out.

It makes him wonder, too. As they traverse the Dunmeth Pass and advance down the province of Morrowind while sticking close to the stretch of Velothi Mountains – the ground gets more and more bare of snow – Jeno replays the fresh memory of the marketplace scene a good handful of times. 

_If you fall, they win. Don’t let them win._ A hefty advice to give to a small child, but the girl seemed to have understood exactly what Donghyuck meant. Who’s they? The other children? The caretakers at the orphanage? The residents of Windhelm? In what world does a child have to fight the ones who are supposed to be there to protect it against the hardships of life?

In a world unfamiliar to Jeno, that much is clear. In a world known to Donghyuck, that much is even clearer. Did he grow up fighting? Has he fallen before? Has he won? Perhaps the battle is still ongoing, and on the other side of the battlefield, covered in the revolting blend of mud and blood there’s… Jeno.

They pull out from the main course at the sight of backwaters. Their horses aspire and drink from the stagnant river – the meadow must be a peaceful place to behold during summer. Jeno listens to Donghyuck and Renjun compete over who is a better stone skipper, to the sound of a pebble bouncing off the surface of the water before sinking.

“Five!” Renjun shrieks. “That was five. I win.”

“I counted four,” Donghyuck rebuffs.

“What? It was five.”

“First skip doesn’t count.”

“What are you saying? It counted when _you_ threw. You can’t just add a rule when it’s convenient, you cheater. Let’s ask Jeno. Jeno!”

He rears his head to look at the expectant pair. Donghyuck’s smile dissolves.

“How many did you count? Five, right?” Renjun asks.

“Sorry, I wasn’t… looking.”

“Okay, but have you ever heard of a first skip rule?”

“It’s a Bosmeri rule, he won’t know,” Donghyuck answers for him, looking away to throw another pebble. It skips two times.

“I don’t remember reading that in ‘A Dance in Fire’,” Renjun says offhandedly, earning a confused stare from the Bosmer and a low-key laugh from Jeno. “Therefore, I’m calling bullshit.”

The day sets together with Donghyuck’s brooding. By the time they chance upon a deserted campsite in a large shallow indentation in the ground, the atmosphere is full of him again, brimming.

“Should we settle here for the night?” Ten asks the Arch-Mage’s opinion – the most important, decisive one.

“I don’t see why not,” the man replies, looking around the plain.

They hop off their horses. The first thing Donghyuck does is squat down to investigate the corpse of a campfire. Renjun comes to stand behind him, and bends his upper body to partake in the observation of their surroundings.

“Someone’s been here just recently,” the boy reveals and removes his gloves to run his index finger along the inner surface of the ring of stones. Before retracting his hand, he looks skyward, at the Imperial. “What do you think?”

“I think–” 

Donghyuck’s fingertip swipes across Renjun’s cheek, not only severing his words, but also drawing a black trail of soot on the canvas of skin. The Imperial takes time out from the moment in order to process the action, and then his eyes fly to Jeno, his body stuck in a bend, meanwhile Donghyuck is already slinking his way out. 

“Is there black on my face?” 

Jeno confirms; “Yes.”

Renjun doesn’t utter another word, only bends further to repeat what Donghyuck did and the ashy residue coats his fingers that are now blades destined to inflict vengeance. Jeno stops paying attention past that point, turning his back to their childish affairs, and instead works on unfastening the bedroll from his horse’s back. Screams pleading for a truce chime behind him, which he would have overlooked without a hitch, but, all of a sudden, someone’s arms latch onto his waist and he’s being spun around. A stride away, Renjun stands with a smudge on his cheek and his dirty fingers raised in the air, ready to smite. Behind him, Donghyuck is laughing breathlessly as he rests his chin on Jeno’s shoulder.

“Jeno, you know what to do,” is how Renjun invites him to join forces.

“Of course he knows what to do,” Donghyuck pipes in. “If he’s not stupid, that is,” he includes above a whisper, but it’s quiet, and it’s only Jeno who hears it.

“Hand over the rascal,” the Imperial demands, his hand effectively smiting the air this time.

What an interesting situation he’s found himself in. Or, rather, was put into without his consent, but there’s no need to concentrate on such trivialities. He could act in a very unnatural way and keep his enemy under protection, or, he could approach the alternative and turn Donghyuck in, which would unquestionably have implications. But… Donghyuck just called the latter option _stupid_ , and that, oddly enough, makes it more appealing.

They lock eyes. It’s a painstakingly slow betrayal: his hands _slowly_ travel to Donghyuck’s wrists, _slowly_ circling them, and he tugs, breaking the chain binding his torso, _slowly_. The aftermath is fast: Jeno moves out of the way, Donghyuck is pushed to the ground and black besmuts his shouting face.

Renjun wipes his hands in a few swift claps like he just finished some onerous job and ambles away to help set the bivouac. On the dusty earth lies the betrayed, the defeated, and his tongue pokes the side of his cheek in a style Jeno has learned is classic to Donghyuck. He extends a hand for him to use and haul himself up, but the Bosmer makes a statement by relying on his own strength.

It’s obvious, but Jeno asks anyway; “Am I in trouble?”

Donghyuck glares at him from close distance. “You better sleep with one eye open tonight,” he hisses, but all Jeno can focus on is the stripe marking his nose.

“...Scary,” he murmurs.

Needless to say, nothing happens that night.

* * *

They reach the intended village a full day later. A full day of traveling. A full day of Donghyuck ignoring his existence – would it be due to Jeno handing him over to Renjun’s care or the persistent grudge effusing the pungency of Windhelm, reminding him of Jeno’s snoop. Sometimes, though, a warmer breeze, so different from the winds reigning over Skyrim, would disarrange Donghyuck’s soft hair and his firm decision, and he would turn to the Altmer, a friendly remark tripping over his tongue, only to pretend it was Renjun he had meant to nudge all along.

A young Dunmer man is the first to say hello to the comers, and he casts them to the household of the village head. They don’t rush as they make their way there – all eyes fall on them; those outside try not to goggle too obviously, while the curious heads pressed against the windows inside the buildings stare proudly. Once they arrive at the specified location, the family has already heard of their advent and has lined up outside the porch accordingly. 

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” The man who Jeno assumes is the head of both the family and this village chants before they can even climb off their horses. “The Arch-Mage of Winterhold himself has come to our little village! Please, please, come inside. You must be tired and starving.” 

The man orders the smaller boy to take their horses to the stables – there’s also the wife who’s rubbing her hands nervously, and a young maiden with sparkling eyes and two, long black braids crowning her shoulders.

Once again, they’re assigned rooms, but this time they’re occupying them in pairs, the Arch-Mage being the exception and claiming the room the owners showed they were most proud of. Frankly, it doesn’t bother Jeno that he’ll have to share a bed with Renjun, as long as it’s a mattress softer than hard ground that he’s resting his back against.

“My wife’s been cooking for you,” the elf announces happily when the travelers throng the tiny living room. “She should be done any moment now.”

“Tell her not to rush,” says the Arch-Mage. “Actually, could I disrupt her work and come into the kitchen? I’m quite the avid epicure myself and I’ve been meaning to learn a few recipes from homeland. ”

“Of course! You’re not disrupting anything.”

Renjun exits the room together with the two Dunmers – perhaps he’ll memorize one of the recipes and pleasantly shock the Arch-Mage by including it in the next daily summary. Ten and Donghyuck dawdle about the windows, creasing up at the boy outside who’s trying to handle the Bosmer’s horse. As for Jeno, he’s currently sitting at the empty dining table and watching the daughter of this household wipe the surface of it with a washcloth. She keeps fidgeting around him like there’s something she’d like to say but can’t gather enough courage to.

“I’ve never seen an Altmer in flesh before,” at last, she discloses sheepishly. “Your skin is so pale.” Not as pale as that of the Nords’, but she must be surprised at an elf possessing light complexion. After all, it’d be safe to presume the ashy grey of her skin is all that surrounds her. “And your hair – yellow like hay.”

In his peripheral vision, Jeno catches Donghyuck stealing a glance over his shoulder in order to look at them.

“Is everyone this handsome in the Summerset Isles?” she proceeds, her comments accelerating, going from simple detailing of his features to blunt complimenting.

He doesn’t know what to say. In this situation, there is no appropriate response – thanking someone is the same as agreeing with them, and agreeing with a complement is a sign of projecting vanity. _Altmers don’t smile to flattery – they sit it out_ , his father had taught him. Having said that, he can’t bring himself to receive it stone-faced, and so Jeno’s lips crack into a thin smile, even if awkwardly.

From behind the Dunmeri maiden, like a portent of calamity materializes Donghyuck. He prevents the awkwardness from reaching a higher high, but he also whispers something in the girl’s ear, steadily bringing shock to her expression. She gives the boy a wide-eyed stare and returns to preparing the table.

Before Jeno can ask, the others who had gone to the kitchen come back and fill out the rest of the chairs. They drink, they eat. They replenish their depleted zest. Notwithstanding his prediction, the daughter doesn’t evade his eyes and meets them in a perfectly open manner, though there is something to her stare. Oh, he just _knows_ Donghyuck made up some twisted lie about him again.

“There’s been a bunch of weird happenings,” the Dark Elf gets around to the topic eventually. “There’s loud wailing coming from the forest. I haven’t heard it myself, but other villagers have; Dartdyn, Sir Brarssen, Thoras – they all heard it. Our woodcutter was felling just a while ago and he said he could hear a woman crying clear as day. We check – nothing. Two days ago the blacksmith’s youngest daughter vanished in the woods. The other kids who saw her enter said they saw little lights flashing, and the girl told them she could hear the sound of bells chiming.” 

Jeno perks up. Doesn’t this sound eerily familiar? 

The Arch-Mage contemplates. “Sounds like it could be a Wispmother.” Upon receiving nothing but confused stares, the elf starts explaining. “Wispmothers are humanoid monsters. They use Wisps to lure hapless adventurers in – those were the flashing lights the children saw. They’re also capable of cloning themselves, and such clones are called Shades. ”

“The tale of the Pale Lady – was that a Wispmother too?” Jeno asks the man.

“It’s been a while since I last heard of her. Yes, she was a Wispmother. Very powerful.”

“I picked up a storybook at the jarl’s residence and, a total coincidence, but one of the tales was hers.”

“I see.”

“Dear sir,” the head of the village interrupts their casual conversation, fearful at the word _powerful_ and what that means with the situation at hand, “can something be done about it?” 

“Definitely. My children and I will go into the woods tomorrow and take care of it.”

 _Children._ Discreetly, Ten makes a throat-slitting gesture at Donghyuck, and the boy’s eyes twinkle with mirth.

“Thank goodness,” the elf exhales. “You and your children are a godsend!”

Following this resolution, the Arch-Mage and the other Dark Elf discuss a few different topics regarding Morrowind; Dunmer on Dunmer matters. The daughter stands up from her chair and collects the emptied plates and cups, trying to balance them all in her hands, but it’s one plate too many – Jeno rises to support the tower she has built before it falls graciously and enriches the evening with strident _clangs._

“Here, let me,” he divides the structure in half, taking it upon himself to ensure its safe arrival. The girl smiles a _thank you,_ then leads the way to the kitchen. Braids of garlic frame the entryway like a unique door, and Jeno has to duck when he passes the threshold, because apparently there’s other spices hanging from the ceiling. The maiden puts the plates on a counter. Jeno mimics her.

“Hey, I wanted to ask…” he breaks the silence. “What did he say to you? The Bosmer?”

This time the maiden’s eyes swirl around the setting, not as eager to run into his. A flush dusts her cheeks. She covers the side of her mouth, taunting the secret to come forward, and him leaning in to listen is automatic. 

“He said Altmers are also...“ she sticks a finger out toward the floor and points, “big down there.”

Jeno withdraws, his eyebrows knitting together. Then, it clicks.

“Oh,” he reacts. _Oh_. Oh? That’s... not what he expected. At all. If what he expected was the south, then this was the northernmost point. “Thank you… for telling me.”

When they return, Donghyuck is nowhere to be found inside the poky living room.

“Where’s Donghyuck?” he asks Ten.

The scholar shrugs. “He just left a minute ago. Maybe in our room?”

But he isn’t, Jeno learns when he checks. He’s closing the door, but then through the narrow crack still revealing the interior he notices a golden metal box reposing on the wardrobe wedged against the wall and next to the entrance. It immediately captivates his thoughts and the door freezes. He’s seen it before, in Donghyuck’s sleeping quarters, buried under sawdust and red string.

Jeno dilly-dallies – go in or leave – and he sets the door even more ajar so his arm can fit through without him having to enter. The metal is scratched in multiple places, in other words it’s been loved immensely. Opening it proves a little difficult, but he manages, and his curiosity gets quenched partially when he sees four lean tobacco sticks packed inside, with space left for only a single cigar.

The door to his right opens unceremoniously, spitting out the boy he’s been trying to find. Jeno attempts to mask the fact he’s holding a foreign belonging by snapping the box shut, but quickly gives up on it – Donghyuck has already seen him peep inside.

“I thought you weren’t interested in smoking,” he says without causing a scene.

“I’m not,” Jeno denies.

“I wouldn’t have offered anyway. These are for emergencies only.”

Jeno outstretches the box toward Donghyuck, “...Seems unbefitting for an expedition.” 

“That’s what you’d think, but emergencies _emerge_ whenever.”

Fair point. The missing cigar suddenly interests him. “What was the emergency?” he pries. “You’ve already smoked one.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He’s getting ahead of himself; if he spoils the Bosmer’s mood again by being nosy, he won’t have the chance to ask the rest that busies his mind. “Did you tell the daughter... “ Jeno begins without finishing, hoping Donghyuck can guess what tails after.

Donghyuck waits for him, though, and when nothing comes he says nonchalantly; “That you got a big dick? I did. She was naming all these attributes, but she missed the key element. I bet she was wondering, you know, _what’s in that fella’s pants_ , and so as someone who’s got some insight, I had decided to be kind and let her know, feed her wildest dreams.” When Jeno doesn’t think it could get any more… interesting, Donghyuck places the cherry on top with a pop. “Right now, she’s probably sitting at that table and daydreaming about how there’s a handsome Altmer in her house who also has a big bulge, and creaming herself at the thought–”

A hand falling on his shoulder silences the Bosmer. Jeno doesn’t know what to think, or _how_ to think, let alone what to say. He’s torn between embarrassment strong beyond anything he’s experienced before and self-satisfaction, but in no way can it be the latter. _Altmers don’t bow to flattery, remember, even when it’s his manhood that’s in question._

“I would appreciate it if you refrained from making such comments next time,” he winds up saying.

Donghyuck returns the stare, his hand coming up to remove Jeno’s. “Sure. Next time I’ll say it’s small.”

 _Of course_. Jeno can never win. He can never truly win.

* * *

The following morning they, as promised, march into the woods with bedrolls mounted on their backs. The Arch-Mage had informed them the search might not be easy and therefore be prolonged, the probability of them sleeping right beneath the sky being quite high.

When no one was listening, Jeno had tried to speak to the Imperial scholar, inquire about his brother’s situation, but Ten politely rejected any and every question. _I don’t want to say something I shouldn’t, so wait for Johnny’s visit in spring_ , he had explained.

“Wispmothers are resistant to frost, but exceptionally weak to fire spells,” the Arch-Mage expands their understanding of the creature an hour into their venture. “They have great perception, rendering something like Muffle useless and can spawn an infinite number of Shades.”

“I don’t feel that good,” Renjun moans. “Something in that food was definitely not right for me.”

The Arch-Mage looks at him, concerned. “Really? I thought the food was delicious.”

“Are you sure it’s not fear that is turning your stomach?” teases Donghyuck.

“I’m not scared, okay? It’s the food.”

Not even twenty minutes later the Bosmer is yanking his arm out as he gasps. “Did anyone see that? Behind that tree!”

The Imperial, who’s walking so close in front of Jeno that he's almost stepping on his heels, seizes Jeno’s forearm, yelling. That’s when Donghyuck’s stressed expression thaws and he smiles wickedly. “The food, huh?”

“You’re so mean. I’m not talking to you ever again.”

Another hour is wastefully spent listening to Donghyuck coaxing Renjun into opening his mouth again. He succeeds in the end.

“Sir,” Ten addresses the Arch-Mage, “do we know what we’re looking for?”

The elf hums before answering. “Wispmothers usually inhabit large bodies of water, like rives or lakes. Sometimes they choose buildings or ruins. We’re looking for any of those, but to tell you the truth, I’m hoping it’ll show itself to us eventually.”

But the Arch-Mage wouldn’t be claiming his position for nothing; even wishful thinking in his magical hands turns into acute prediction. There comes a moment – it comes late, in the wake of early evening – when Donghyuck starts hearing the chiming of the bells. No one believes him at first, thinking it’s another practical joke of his – especially Renjun who threatens to switch roommates if Donghyuck doesn’t stop messing around – but then they see Wisps floating about.

Ten casts a familiar to scout the area. “There’s a lake up north,” he reports after a good fifteen minutes of them anticipating.

A lake. That’s good news. The scholar takes the lead and surely enough, they reach the promised lake. Besides the Wisps floating above and the willows hunching over to see their reflection in the mirror of murky water, there’s nothing there.

“Do we explore the water?” Donghyuck looks at the Arch-Mage, puzzled.

“There is no need. All we have to do is attack one of the Wisps. The Wispmother is a _mother._ It’ll come out to seek vengeance on behalf of its dear children.”

Donghyuck nods. “Can I do it?” 

“Go ahead.”

Magicka coats the Bosmer’s palm; a layer of outward energy changes colors like a chameleon adjusting to Donghyuck’s mood – the boy must be contemplating which spell to use. It finalizes on a deep tangerine, and he hurls a gout of fire toward the floating sphere of light. The Wisp disintegrates upon impact.

As if it’s the lake itself that is bellowing, a nasty shriek sounding from the depths shakes the body of water, creating infinite undulations. The travelers take a step backwards even before the glorious appearance of the monster – a thick blanket of smoke fogs the air above the lake, and then a silhouette akin to female proportions arises. Jeno exchanges looks with Renjun, _they’re really seeing this._

The anatomy of the creature is ghastly, the lower half of its body like a piscine tail that is made from tattered coral fabric, and it crosses its breasts and wraps around its bald head like a scarf. Its face is a permanent scowl.

“A pow… powerful mage,” it shrills.

The Arch-Mage nods at his students like he’s about to show them how to converse with a wild monster, a lecture of a new, higher caliber.

“That’s right. I am powerful and I’ve come here to kill you,” the man speaks at the top of his voice, accentuating the words. “But I don’t have to if you make a deal with me.”

“Pow… powerful mage,” the creature ignores.

“Where’s the child you’ve kidnapped?”

“Shh!” it hisses, and the lake hisses with it. “You’ll wa… wake her up. Sleeping… lake bed… She’s sleeping.”

Silence befalls the crew. They can all guess what the ragged utterance means. The girl is no more.

“Then we won’t be making any deals I’m afraid,” the Arch-Mage says in turn, then twists back to the students, his face serious this time. “The moment I start fighting it, it’ll unleash its clones. I have decided to use Fire Storm so I can kill all of them at once. Run as fast as you can – Ten will know when you reach the safe distance.”

Nobody disobeys, spinning on their heels. Fire Storm is a master-level Destruction spell that unleashes an explosion of flames centered at the caster's location, immediately dealing immense damage to those within range. The fire is magical, so it doesn't affect the surroundings, but that also means the trees won’t soften the blow if they don’t make it in time.

Curiosity gets the better of him and Jeno looks over his shoulder for a very short moment, but the sight he’s met with remains behind his eyes for as long as they dash to safety: the Arch-Mage was standing straight, arms fully extended as he gazed at the sky, and tall flames were dancing across the length of his stretched limbs.

A wave of heat radiates before the boom can hit. 

“Duck!” Ten shouts.

They all plunge to the ground. Then, the deafening roar of the destructive spell rocks the air. They’re heaving, eyes refusing to stay put.

“Holy shit,” Donghyuck’s whisper cracks. “That must cost a lot of magicka.”

“So the girl is dead?” Renjun swallows, though with difficulty. “She’s drowned?”

Ten shakes his head. “No– Yes, she’s dead, but her body would be afloat if she were in the lake. The monster must’ve already devoured her. It’s pretty grim, I know, but the chances of the kid surviving were close to zero from the start. The Arch-Mage just didn’t want to tell the family and dispirit everyone.”

Eventually, the man returns a warrior, a hero, sluggishness that was previously not there visible in his gait. They set up camp a relatively close distance to the lake and bed down soon after. After all, it’s been a while since the sky has dimmed, as well as their spirits.

* * *

Jeno’s face puckers before his eyes crack open. A trembling hold on his leg and whispers of his name are trying to stir him. The unrelenting effort hales his head up, and he finds it belongs to a slouched dark figure. 

“Are you sleeping?” the shadow asks.

“Not anymore.”

The Altmer’s head rolls back. He might have missed the person’s face, but the silvery voice is unmistakable. 

“Jeno,” Donghyuck calls. “Jeno,” he repeats when there’s no response, his grip shaking. “ _Jeno_.”

“What?” he grunts.

“Stop pretending you’re asleep.”

If only Donghyuck knew he doesn’t have to pretend, because _he is_ or will very soon slip back into an unconscious state.

“I want to go to the lake,” Donghyuck pesters.

“Then go.”

“I don’t wanna go alone. What if the thing is still there?”

“Go with Renjun.”

“No, thanks. He’ll kick me if I wake him up.”

 _What makes you think I won’t kick you if you keep bothering me_ , is a proud response Jeno thinks he delivers, when in reality he’s a quiet second short from snoozing again. He’s only imagining that another’s body is climbing on top of him, or at least that’s what it feels like at first – the remaining tendrils of his dream deluding him – but then the ghost of Donghyuck’s warm breath tickles his ear. “What if I drowned? You’d regret not coming with me _so much_.”

Drowned? Why would Donghyuck drown? Is he planning on swimming in the icy water?

“You’ll be fine. I believe in the Arch-Mage’s golden boy,” Jeno mutters sleepily. If he currently had half a brain, he would refrain from attaching the title to Donghyuck while they’re breathing the same air, but it kills the noise. Finally, some peace. The badgering has been shut down; Jeno can almost smell the reunion with his lost dream. Then, all of a sudden a sharp sting courses through his left ear. He springs up like a grasshopper, hand covering where it throbs. Donghyuck just bit him, and he’s now attempting to fade away into the darkness of the night like the shadow he first appeared as. 

Jeno crawls out of the bedroll full tilt, forcibly blinking the brume of sleep away, and gets running once his limbs cooperate and when the moonlight betrays the Bosmer’s whereabouts. Branches snap under his rushing feet, moss-grown trees obscure his path as he follows the trail of boyish giggling. He loses sight of his target for a blind moment, and that’s when he first feels the absence of warmth the bedroll provided him with. Then, a silhouetted movement restores his sense of direction.

Like a body-gripping trap designed to capture unaware wildlife, Jeno embraces Donghyuck in a sweeping hug from behind when he finally catches up. He’s close to repaying the gift of ache, but then his eyes set on the view in front of them. A black lake glistens beneath the silver moon outlined by draping willows. He was a fool to think he was the hunter, when in fact he was the game, baited by a chase. In the end, all the boy has to do is utter his wish, and Jeno gives it to him on a platter.

When his arms leave the still body, Donghyuck turns to him. He lifts his hands to the collar of his novice robes, and his fingers tug with the aim to loosen the strings.

“You’re really doing it,” Jeno says pointlessly.

“I really am,” he continues to undress. “Are you?”

“No.”

He’s seen Donghyuck a handful of times, but his eyes still turn away. Maybe it’s the innocence of this fair night exposing the truest colors – there’s no silk shawl of lust enwrapping the boy’s skin – and he isn’t yet sure his gaze can accustom to the sight. When Jeno summons the courage to look up, Donghyuck is already half-submerged in the dark of the lake, arms shielding his naked body from the cold. Bit by bit he sinks deeper until it’s only his shoulders protruding from the water, and he twists to look at the shore one more time before diving in.

Jeno stares at the single ripple that expands and dies away. Just a moment ago his clasp guarded Donghyuck, his restive lungs and his palpitating heart, and now all of it is gone; not even a whiff of fantasy remains. Was the Bosmer never there to begin with? Was he only imaginary? 

No, the pain he left behind is real. Jeno’s ear still burns lowly, and a pang of wistful sadness reverberates throughout his soul. The surface of the lake is still, it’s a glass screen that has hardened and will not allow those underneath to escape. Jeno kicks off his boots – _he must save Donghyuck –_ and pulls his robes off over his head.

He knew the water would be cold, but it still surprises him. He fortifies himself against it and plunges forward – the longer he stands, the colder it gets – and shatters the fluid mirror. On the lake bed the stones are slippery and vines stroke his sides, making him grimace but not stop. He’s almost there.

With a dramatic gasp for a deep draught Donghyuck resurfaces in front of him, his hands swiping away the water from his eyes. Oh, what a habitual liar he is. Donghyuk said his body won’t accept anything but gold. So how come his wet skin is brazenly wearing the argent glow of the moon? 

The Bosmer whips the water, splashing Jeno in the face, thus breaking off his shameless staring.

“Isn’t it nice?” Donghyuck asks through chattering teeth.

“It’s cold.”

“Why did you get in then? You knew it’d be cold.”

_Because you went under like you’re never coming back._

Jeno doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to; Donghyuck is gliding closer to collect the answer himself. Two cold hands frame his face and his heartbeat that is growing more prominent. 

“Silly Altmer, I wouldn’t have drowned,” a soft voice allays his fears. A soft, condescending voice. “Were you worried? Did you jump in to save me?”

The crease between his eyebrows is soon straightened by a cyan light warming up his cheeks. The spell of Calm. Donghyuck stares into him with clear eyes as he pacifies the rising storm. Pearly drops gather at the tips of his strands, rolling down his dewy cheeks or plummeting back to where they came from – to the bottom of the lake. If it wasn’t for the tranquillizing touch, he’d reach out to wrap his empty arms around the strong taper of Donghyuck’s waist and defy nature by heating the shivering boy with his magicka. He’d abandon reason for once and tell him he looks breathtaking – never mind pretty – and that it’s not only his breath that’s been taken. He’d initiate this time and lean in to meet those bluing lips, and later when he’s sitting in his room inside of Winterhold, he would write a letter about how the kiss resuscitated his heart just to smash it to smithereens.

“You should immerse fully,” alongside the spell, the words have a hypnotizing effect. “It’s nice, I promise.”

Donghyuck lets go when Jeno nods scarcely while in the mercy of his hands. He takes a deep breath. The last thing he sees before closing his eyes is _him_. The cold surrounds him completely. For that sightless moment, he becomes one with the water; the stifled rumbling is that of his silenced mind, and his limbs are the vines waving along the frozen current. He slowly moves his eyelids. From above, moonlight pokes through the surface and seeps in, combating the blackness. This calmness, it’s lovely, until he can’t breathe.

The first thing he sees when he comes back up is the moon. Jeno pushes his hair back and gapes at the white globe in the sky.

_So my lover is the moon. Her kindness is pale, false hope trickling from her mouth and down my throat – this, it happens nightly, only nightly. Amoral love gone criminal, doomed to hide in the shadows. This, it’ll happen nightly, only nightly. Oh, how I wish my lover was the sun, and shone on me, a child of Summerset, without shame, without secret, in broad daylight. How I wish it poisoned me with sweet lies in place of bitter truth and ruddied my complexion using contrived affection. But she, alas, is the moon, and the morning comes to take her away._

Jeno manually blinks a couple of times, chasing the residue of the spell away. Donghyuck isn’t here. He flips around – no, Donghyuck is here, on the shore, clothing himself hurriedly. His hands stammer when he notices Jeno looking.

“Wasn’t that nice?” he asks, a little choked.

Jeno ignores the shouted question and watches as the robes make their way back on his body, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“...Getting dressed.” The obvious answer doesn’t put him at ease, but gives him an inkling that nothing good will come out of it. “You know,” the Bosmer, now fully clothed, crouches next to the pile of Jeno’s robes. He scoops them up. “You should think harder next time you want to pick Renjun’s side over mine.”

“Donghyuck.” The name rolls off his tongue with a hint of menace. “Put it back.”

The boy’s smug face says it all; it’s a void threat. He arches a sly brow, tossing the garment over his shoulder. “Or else?”

When Jeno takes a step forward, Donghyuck does the opposite. 

“I wish you a nice–”

“Donghyuck–”

“–swim. Have a nice swim.”

“Hey!”

The Bosmer makes a dart for the woods. Jeno starts wading out of the water hastily. _This little…_ On the narrow stripe of dirty shingle, his boots remain waiting for him — Donghyuck is so understanding, leaving them behind so that Jeno doesn’t accidentally cut himself while running barefoot. He wriggles into his boots and speeds toward their bivouac, his body shedding water drops like he’s a half-expected rain cloud.

Oh, he won’t let Donghyuck off this time. There’s no way he will.

He’s been moving straight, trusting the method to pay off, but then he’s forced to stop, feeling like he’s been running for a little too long. _If he gets lost stark naked in these woods, Donghyuck’s life expectancy will be cut short._ Thankfully, there’s someone strolling ahead, a northern star reassuring him, showing him the way. If it’s Donghyuck – he’d better start hiding. If it’s someone else, well…

Jeno runs up to the person obscured by nightly shadows, barely keeping his want to tackle said person at bay. The yet-unnamed-individual turns around – must’ve heard him approaching – and barely manages to stop his stumbling backwards. It’s Renjun. _Thank heavens it’s him and not the Arch-Mage or the scholar._

“Wha–” his friend stutters. “What… Jeno why… Why are you buck naked?”

He doesn’t have time for this. “Where’s Donghyuck? Did you see him?”

Renjun looks at him funny. He’s sure he _looks_ pretty funny right now: a livid glare searching, apart from his boots, not a single piece of fabric covers his nude – though he is covering his crotch with cupped hands – and a gush of queries regarding the Bosmer escape him.

“Why are you up?” Jeno asks, forcing himself to calm down.

“I got up to take a leak. Why are _you_ up? Wait, don’t tell me...”

“What?”

“...You’re a werewolf, aren’t you?”

Jeno’s lungs jerk in a laugh. “Do I look like I just howled at the moon?” _Actually, that’s not too far from the truth._

“No, but you look like you just shifted forms or something.”

The heat the crusading anger has brought is abating. Goosebumps flood his skin. “I’ll go crawl into my bedroll now,” he rasps. “If you see Donghyuck, let me know. And if you see my robes – also let me know.”

Renjun nods like there’s a question blocking his windpipe, and they walk side by side until it’s time to seperate. The bedroll sleeps on the ground without him, thicker than Jeno would’ve remembered. He narrows his eyes as he nears it; apparently, it’s stuffed with another living being.

“Hey,” Donghyuck greets quietly. “I think you got the wrong place. This is not a nudist beach.”

“Get out.”

Nothing happens.

“I said. Get out.”

Jeno extends a hand, which makes Donghyuck pull the edge of the bedroll up so that it conceals half of his face.

“I’ll drag you out,” he warns.

“I’ll scream.”

Jeno glances in the direction of where the Arch-Mage is currently snoozing. Let’s say Donghyuck does scream and awaken everyone – they’d rush over just to find a naked Jeno forcing the boy out of the leather sack. Better not. He vowed to himself not to let Donghyuck off this time, but he was clueless about the fact he’d _have to_ when making that promise. His outstretched hand squeezes into a ball as he falls back. 

“Where are my clothes?” he demands.

The bedroll writhes together with Donghyuck – he fishes out the requested garb and hands it to him without another word. Well, that was easy. Jeno glares at the boy who’s play-acting abashed before flouncing away to don the clothing. He returns a moment later, back planking against one of the nearby trees, arms interweaving. It’s quiet, save for the owl that hoots somewhere above in the branches. The extra layer on his skin serves as temporary satisfaction only; he’s back to feeling shivery.

“You look cold,” Donghyuck observes loudly.

“You don’t say.”

“Pfft. You’re choosing to stand there yourself when you could come here. There’s enough space for two.”

Jeno shifts his weight from one foot to another. “Are you saying I’m allowed to sleep in my own bedroll? You’re so sympathetic, Donghyuck.”

He runs a comforting hand over his arm three times before pushing off. Donghyuck wiggles to the side as far away as the confines of the fabric allow, patting the emptied space, welcoming him. 

Inside they’re… compact. The bedroll was never meant to cocoon two bodies, but it’s been charged with the duty either way, and so there’s no other option for Donghyuck but to lie prone, half-draped on top of Jeno. The boy’s hair is damp and it preserves the smell of the lake: soil-like, complex smell of water-soaked marshlands and air thickened by murky water. The smell of moondust that fell on him like snow. Owing to Donghyuck sharing his warmth, the shivers are casted out impressively fast. Him being warmer than Jeno seems to be a constant.

If he wasn’t still tasting the acidity of post-choler, he’d be quieting his racing heart down and wielding sweaty palms.

“Have you warmed up?” the Bosmer asks. “Should I check? Since you’re not answering.”

Donghyuck’s hand has been resting on his chest, but it starts moving downward, suggestive. Jeno catches it before it can activate him in ways he’d rather not be activated right now.

“We’re not doing this,” he says conclusively.

The vicious hand attempts to escape the firm lock of his fingers, but he can’t possibly allow it to wreak havoc while on the loose.

“You’re still mad? It was a harmless jape.”

“It’s not about that. The Arch-Mage is here, as well as Renjun.” 

Donghyuck gives up on trying to free his wrist, availing himself of his other unbound parts and rolling his hips down against Jeno, narrowly missing his crotch. “So?”

He heaves a weary sigh. Then, he _attacks_ , because that’s the only way to _win_. He attacks Donghyuck by weaponizing his hands and tickling him, digging his fingers into the sides of his torso and doing everything else to send shockwaves through his body, making him squirm and wheeze until he’s promising to drop the untimely behavior.

Jeno pins Donghyuck’s head to his chest with the flat of his palm. “Sleep,” he bids. “If you’re not going to return to your own bedroll, at least don’t make me lose more sleep than I already have.”

He’s currently too awake to actually slip into a dream, and so when the Bosmer does dry up and makes room for the sleep fairies to dust their soporific magic, he’s left to stare at the arms of the forest trying to hide the night sky from him. The commanding press of his hand eventually evolves into strokes that card through Donghyuck’s hair gently.

Suddenly, the boy speaks; “What is Summerset like?”

“It’s… warm. And sunny.”

“That’s it? Just warm and sunny? I could probably give a better description and I’ve never even been there.”

“Do it,” Jeno encourages.

“Okay, so, there’s towers. I know there’s towers… Are there towers?”

“There are. There’s the Crystal Tower in the main isle near Cloudrest.”

“See? Easy.”

“You’re right. Let me start again. It’s warm, sunny, and there’s towers.”

Donghyuck lifts his head to convey how done he is by blinking at the Altmer tiredly.

“I can tell you about Auridon,” Jeno offers, barely holding in a grin.

“Auridon?”

“It’s the second largest island. I was born there.”

“Okay.” 

His fingers get to work again – the Bosmer retucks his head in Jeno’s neck.

“I live near the seacoast. There’s jagged promontories there and the island sort of bends like a shield, so in the past it protected mainland Summerset from invasions. You can tell by looking at the ruins scattered all over the land. Then there’s white granite mountains in the island's middle, and the rest is woodlands, escarpments, and sand dunes. Actually, most of Auridon is still untouched. I remember reading an Imperial traveler’s notes in which he called the island ‘ _unkempt_ ’ _._ I beg to differ, but there’s the possibility that I’m biased.”

Donghyuck huffs. “Has anybody told you that whenever you explain stuff you start talking like this?”

“Like _this_?”

“Yeah. I first noticed it when you were explaining dragons to me. You become… It’s hard to explain. It feels like you’re reading a text.”

“Oh, you mean articulate?”

“Yeah– _We get it_ , you know many fancy words.”

Jeno jabs the boy’s side, drawing a restrained laugh out of him. “You should hear me when I talk to the nobility of Summerset,” he jests.

In response, the Bosmer puffs out a sigh of feigned disbelief. “You’re telling me you don’t talk to _me_ like I’m noble? So you’ve been dumbing it down for me this entire time? Good to know, good to know.”

“Well, you are a little…” The word that almost makes it past the entrance grinds his tongue to a halt.

“Hm? I’m what? Finish, finish. Oh, wait, you can’t. Joroth Lorathael is an Altmer, and Altmers don’t curse.”

“Indeed. Foul language is for commoners. You shouldn’t curse either.” 

The advice flies over Donghyuck’s head, his claws set on the topic. “I’ll make you say fuck someday.”

“That’s an interesting aspiration. I wish you success.”

“I’ll succeed,” he assures resolutely, his body fidgeting in aim to move up, hot breath misting the underside of Jeno’s jaw. “If it’s not said out of anger, then it’ll be you moaning it while I take you in–”

An urgent hand confronts the obscenity, muffling it. The Bosmer, he’s too much sometimes, way too much. Just like last time, Jeno pushes the disobedient head down, and just like last time, he begins to play with the copper curls, semi-aware of the comfortable scene they’re enacting.

“Don’t you get tired?” again, Donghyuck prompts.

“Hm?”

“Of having to talk like that? It sounds tiring. And fake.”

Jeno has never thought of it that way. It’s polite and it’s proper, perhaps a little forced at times, but it’s not _fake._ “I wouldn’t call it fake,” he says what’s on his mind.

“But that’s what it is: you’re not being honest. Swearing is showing how you feel at that moment, and that’s honest. For example, if I’m mad, I’ll swear, and so you know I’m mad. And if I think someone is a dickhead, I’ll tell them. But you guys keep it all in and I’m just wondering how you don’t burst a vein.”

“You don’t have to curse to show feelings,” he tries to debate the monologue.

“Right, because when you’re mad, you can just cast a familiar and hope it bites the person in the ass.”

Everything Jeno says opens an opportunity for the Bosmer to reference his past mistakes. More often than not, that opportunity is seized. “You’re asking for it,” he lets him know.

“I’m asking for it and you’re not giving it to me.”

Jeno can’t see, but he can hear the pout. It’s his fault for spoiling the boy by always reacting in the most fierce fashion and employing his strength, fulfilling his wishes. “Do you want to visit Summerset one day?” he returns to the very first demonstration of curiosity. 

“No,” comes the unambiguous denial. “I just remembered the girl we saw in Windhelm and it made me think of my brother. He was interested in Summerset for no good reason.”

“Is he…” _Younger, older,_ Jeno wants to ask, but Donghyuck’s interjection precedes.

“A half-breed? No. He’s normal.”

His frozen fingers hover, suddenly too daring and misplaced. 

“I haven’t seen him in five years,” Donghyuck utters below him, almost inaudibly. “I wonder if he’s still stuttering. He used to–” 

Pause. Steep silence follows.

The boy pushes up, hair falling into his eyes as he looks down at Jeno with an angular expression. Or, maybe he’s braving the counterfeit image of reality: two beaten souls searching for solace in each other, forgetting their wedding would be catastrophic, casually conversing like daybreak is no more than a myth. “I’ve been speaking too much. You said you wanted to sleep,” he says, voice barren of emotion, distant.

_No, it’s okay._

“This is your bedroll,” Donghyuck remarks as if he’s noticing the fact for the first time. As if he’s spelling it out for himself. “I should go to mine.”

Jeno’s arms tingle; they want to push down for the third time. His mouth is a different story, however. It curries favor with resistance the Bosmer is displaying. “If you want to.”

And Donghyuck, he wants to. He leaves. The first evidence of sunlight pervades the dark sky, coloring it a shade lighter.

_His lover is the moon, and the morning comes to take her away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> donghyuck's first time meeting another half-breed, that's why he was so shaken by it.
> 
> society if nohyuck ever adopted that little girl: [insert a picture of a clean futuristic landscape] 
> 
> i'm offering you to imagine this for a second: they're in jeno's manor in summerset because he's studying politics, he's in his father's office working after he and donghyuck had some petty argument, and the girl comes in to ask a question – "what's a cocksucker?" jeno bugs out and asks her where she heard the word and she tells him that "donghyuck said 'all men are cocksuckers' but he said not to tell you".  
> i, personally, think that'd be neat. 
> 
> also, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKEZ3jt_Hgc) is donghyuck scaring renjun.
> 
> and [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


	15. Words, They Always Win, but I Know I'll Lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi.

A flower crown of reborn colors, blooming colors, fragrant colors: that’s how the Summerset Isles wear the title of spring. Here, in Skyrim, it is barely a gradient of a sunny sky hackled by naked golden branches. A sporadic appearance of an early bird that soars overhead and perches on trees that await the melting of the snow, which will only come to pass in a month’s time.

It’s a different spring, bashful and slightly withdrawn; Jeno would argue whether or not it’s merely an extension of the coldest season.

“I wish we had another month of winter,” Renjun sighs as they traverse the town uphill. They’ve spent the majority of the morning at the training fields – Jeno was exercising his ability to create a magicka absorbing shield that negates incoming spell damage, and his friend was the one to _perform_ said incoming spell damage.

“March in Skyrim _is_ winter,” negotiates Jeno. “Maybe not by definition, but by my standards, it is.”

“It’s not that I want it to be cold or snowing, just… timewise. I wish we had more time. Three months and it’ll be our last year at the College, and once it’s over, I will probably never see you again.”

“That’s not true. I’m sure I’ll come to the continent and visit you someday.”

“Spare the lip service!” The Imperial whines. “You’ll be a busy Altmer fighting other Altmers in order to bring magic back to the world. You really think the thought of a college buddy will ever cross your mind?”

An exaggeration worthy of Jeno’s smile. “I’m positive it will.“ If only the reality was as fun as it sounded coming from Renjun. It’ll be a fight unlike any other, soft-edged and drenched in caution, full of brown-nosing and crafty vocabulary. His mother has been employing more straightforward methods and those don’t always work with adamant Altmers, so Jeno is left anticipating a gruesomely vapid contest.

A fiery red that colors Winterhold all year round comes into view. It’s the local pharmacist with her ginger shock of hair, and she’s ornamenting the front of the store with young willow catkins. Oh, he had completely forgotten it’s First Planting today. That means the first-years are currently in the courtyard preparing for the event the College will be hosting; Jeno should’ve saved his magicka for when he later sits in his post and purveys Restoration.

“But also, as much as I complain sometimes, I like it here,” Renjun, revealing that he’s still dwelling on the topic, says. “The ins and outs of this place. The good and the bad. I’d go as far as to say I’m going to miss having to wake Donghyuck up every other morning. Just so you know, you both suck, so him replacing you wasn’t that much of an upgrade. It was a downgrade, actually. At least you wouldn’t cuss me out… Three months and I will never see that brat again.”

That’s right, Renjun had told him about it already – Donghyuck won’t return the next year, no matter the outcome of their competition. Jeno won’t bother dismantling how that knowledge makes him feel, but he knows it’ll be weird not having a personal butcher that sharpens his silver every time Jeno makes a mistake or does something as simple and unavoidable as being an Altmer who needs the warrant.

An unexpected question follows his friend’s wistful monologue: “you and Donghyuck are good now, right?”

Since the night in Morrowind, they haven’t spoken much. Donghyuck hasn’t come to him bruised or bleeding, asking for a dose of Restoration and everything else that usually follows, either. They’re not at their worst, far from that, but the bar for what is _good_ has been raised exponentially over the last month.

“Define good,” he says.

“You know what I mean. No one returned from the trip sporting a black eye or hurt in any way. Neither of you was acting like it was the end of the world to make an attempt at coexisting, and I think that’s progress for your relationship.”

“In that case, I guess we are.”

“So I can finally say it was silly from the get-go. The warrant is important for you two, I get that, but it’s a flimsy excuse to be horrible to each other. Really, if it wasn’t for the warrant, you’d get along well, I’m telling you. You’re more taciturn while Donghyuck… isn’t, and that is a recipe for a good friendship. I think you could be friends still if both of you stopped being so stubborn.”

But it’s not a simple matter of stubbornness. It’s not a simple matter in the slightest. “You’re forgetting the fact he framed me for something I did not do and–” _And I called him a half-breed once, all full-throated and intentional_. “Donghyuck and I becoming friends is unlikely. It wouldn’t be easy to shut out the past.“

Besides, they cannot and will never be friends for reasons undisclosed: Jeno doesn’t normally get sexually involved with someone he calls a friend, and even with every intricacy of their dynamic put aside, he cannot imagine looking at Donghyuck now and thinking that he wants to forge a friendship and not kiss his neck.

But Renjun’s efforts to matchmake don’t diminish easily. “Let me get this straight. You befriended Dejun shortly after he had cut your face, but you can’t forget something that happened months ago?”

“What happened between me and Dejun was a manageable elf dispute, and thus it was managed.” The reaction his words evoke prompt him to add: “Renjun, believe me, I know better than anyone that I’m being a tad unreasonable, but you can’t hound me. You should be aware by now that reason won’t solve anything. The moment I start reasoning is the moment our relationship regresses.”

Renjun’s response isn’t immediate. “As long as you two coexist.”

Coexisting is enough. Coexisting is plenty – it’s something he couldn’t have dreamed of back in the beginning of winter, nor is it something he would have wished for. But the hatred is defrosting together with nature, with the sun staying up a minute longer each day, with Donghyuck’s warm thighs rebranding his memories. He’s slowly beginning to forget the taste of humiliation; it must have been incredibly bitter, but Jeno is starting to remember it as honey-sweet. The topic of Donghyuck was once a taboo set in stone, but cracks have been starting to appear – Renjun must’ve noticed the absence of irritation the name used to call out, and dared to have this conversation. Even so, Jeno can’t say what’s on his mind. He’s standing stranded in the awkwardness of the situation: while he’s fully aware of who the Bosmer is, he can’t stay blind to the feeling the sight of him brings, and all he can do to appease the split of rationality is to appear unaffected, being truthful and uncensored only when there’s a quill in his hand. 

* * *

The first-years are slaving away in the courtyard, toting the tables, hanging up garlands; working hard to set up a festive mood. At one of the brought tables there idles Jaemin, or at least that’s what it looks like from afar; from up close, Jeno and Renjun find him working on a pine crown, wrapping a thin white ribbon around its lush width.

“You’re helping out a lot I see,” Renjun makes the snarky comment, which only plasters a grin on his cousin.

“The ladies have to have something to wear while dancing, don’t you think?”

Jeno rears his head at the mention. Near the main tower he discerns Ravaena’s ebony dress flapping with the sudden gust of northern wind. He excuses himself and crosses the courtyard, evading the working students, halting when two Altmers cut in front of him to carry a stand to the other side of the yard. That’s when he notices Ravaena isn’t alone, but with her roommate. It’s too late to turn back now, though; his friend sees his intention to approach her and is expecting him with a pleasant look on her face.

“We’re building Morry. Want to help us?” she asks once he’s standing in front of her.

Morry, a giant dummy made of cloth and surplus dry hay, which then is erected on a stake and set on fire; a sacrifice given to gods amid the mortal chanting of, ‘winter, winter, leave our land for now and ever’.

“Why not.”

From where she’s crouching to tend the large uneven sphere – which most likely represents Morry’s head – Caria’s fingers freeze momentarily. Jeno can tell she recognizes his voice but doesn’t dare to face him.

“It’d be nice if you could stuff her left arm,” Ravaena instructs, showing him the opposite limb she’s currently filling with hay. Without any further questions their cooperation commences, but doesn’t last – they quickly run out of materials to work with. “Someone should bring another crate. I’m pretty sure I heard someone say they will,” she assures.

While they await the promised supplementation, Jeno attempts to pat Ravaena’s head with the limp, half-filled artificial arm, making her giggle. They’re in the middle of pressing their creations in a sloppy handshake when his friend announces that the goods are here. Jeno can feel the crate poking his backside before he can see it, and so he twists to take the box into his own hands. The gratitude he wants to express dies in his throat, forcing him to craft another _thanks_ , which comes out a little crooked. It’s Donghyuck that is handing him the crate. They’re this close for the first time in what feels like forever, when in actuality, no more than two weeks have gone by. The frozen stone of the courtyard is a painfully familiar setting in which he’s used to their paths intersecting, but the unfamiliarity of sunny weather and newly accepted sentiment speed his heart.

Softly, _very_ softly, a cry of pain shatters the moment, garnering everyone’s thorough attention. Below their collected stares, Caria’s hand bleeds a perfect crimson. This time, her eyes meet Jeno’s. “I– I tried to cut the cloth and–”

“Jeno can heal that,” Donghyuck interrupts her, not at all bothered by the sight of blood. “He’s really good with Restoration.”

A seemingly innocent remark, but only to the untrained eye. Jeno can feel the impending squall. 

“How would you know?” Ravaena asks, her question oozing a strict unfriendliness. 

“I’ve had first-hand experience, Miss Grayore. With hunting comes pain and injuries, and Jeno’s been gracious enough to volunteer his magicka.” The operative word ‘ _volunteer_ ’ has Ravaena’s countenance in a crumple. The Altmer can’t bear another second of watching the two glare daggers at each other, therefore he comes down to see to Caria’s wound instead.

“What do you mean by that?” comes another question from Ravaena.

“All I’m saying is Jeno’s a real gentleman. Not everyone would offer their magicka so selflessly. I’m sure this quality of his has earned him at least a weekly love confession.”

Such an outright thing to say when he’s nursing the girl’s injury. Cruel, too. His courage spurs him to look Caria in the eyes, however, they never leave her hand that Jeno is so carefully holding. Donghyuck abandons the site of passive destruction as if he wasn’t the instigator.

“What did he mean by that?” Ravaena repeats, but she’s asking Jeno this time.

“It’s as he said. I helped him a couple of times.”

“Why?”

“Because he came to me.”

“And you agreed to do it? Joroth, he’s–”

Jeno rises to return to his workplace.

“I know. Can we talk about this later? After the event.”

He’s stuffing a leg of Morry, his mind not present in the moment. Not only did Donghyuck agitate Ravaena on purpose, he also brought Caria’s confession up in the most unforgiving manner. Did he act on jealousy, or was it sheer malice? Doesn’t matter. What matters is Jeno’s burning desire to toss this prosthetic leg aside and run after the Bosmer, shove him against the thick wall inside the Hall of the Elements and ask him if what he did was necessary, if it was worth it. If the excruciating tension he had created was satisfactory, if it brought him delight. Jeno would then lead another thrust for good measure, because he’s starting to lose his aptitude for strong, fervent reactions, and another one, and another one, and _another_ one, until he’s content and it’s Donghyuck’s crotch he’s targeting. Until he’s feeling him through his clothes. Until he’s aroused and throbbing against Jeno’s prying hand. And Jeno would land unforgiving slaps against his veiled erection, just like Donghyuck had been unforgiving with his words. Most of all, he’d catch any and every sound, no matter how big or small, and he’d catch it with none other than his own lips, trapping it between their coupled mouths so it couldn’t be heard from the courtyard. He’d be afraid of it escaping to meet another’s ears; not because there’s a risk in being found out, but because it’s Jeno who is the chosen one, the blessed one, and no other mortal deserves to be favored by the divine melody–

...Back to the realm his physical body is residing in...

Did he really just daydream about the Bosmer in broad daylight? Jeno glances at Ravaena, sidelong. She’s engrossed in helping Caria finish up the dummy’s noddle, but the after-shame of mindless fantasizing makes him think she had all of a sudden possessed the ability to read minds and overheard his blaring thoughts, and is only pretending not to know. Not to mention… he had fantasized about young maidens during morning hours before, too, but it was rather chaste compared to… whatever this could be classified as. In order to please Donghyuck, would Jeno really go as far as to publicly indulge him?

* * *

The answer is yes. Right now, he would. He _so_ would. In front of everyone. He would cross the point of no return in one big stride and steal the boy away. If he had the guts, that is.

The girls, they’re decked out in traditional clothing of the Nords. Not all of them – Ravaena is wearing her flowy black – but most are. White aprons embroidered with geometric designs are covering long plaid skirts. Vests of matching color fitted with a ruffle at the waist. They’re all beautiful. But beautiful is where it ends.

The same couldn’t be said about Donghyuck, no; somehow, one of the pine crowns Jaemin had made ended up adorning the Bosmer’s copper curls. There’s a vest of deep green pinching his waistline, and it ties in with the green of the crown quite perfectly. For a second, Jeno wonders if he’s carrying the jade under all those layers, because that too, would fit nicely.

Before he can enjoy all that First Planting has to offer, Jeno promises himself not to engage Donghyuck in any way, simply because he needs a breather. Pining away at every arbitrary thought of the Bosmer would only be to his detriment. This promise also includes not squeezing in curious glances, not giving way for fantasies to develop, and definitely not bringing him to his quarters tonight when his sensitivity to Donghyuck’s poison is heightened profusely.

Just before sunset they set the dummy on flames, and it burns alongside the reddening sky. The Nords intone the incantation; some students join in, few of them being Altmers. The promise he’s made isn’t hard to keep, since his sister Agnae enters the picture and turns his evening upside down with but a single tap on his shoulder. She proffers him a letter – her sparing him the need to pick letters up from the Orc has become a means of attempted interaction between the two siblings.

Jeno knows he should wait and open it tomorrow morning, but instead he moves to the back of the ring of people. A letter from his mother, nothing new there, but the tone the first two sentences set prepare him for an unpleasant read.

_...Inside I always knew he’d resort to such expediency. Perhaps it was the ghost of our shared past that I willingly let blindfold me. I can no longer trust him with my vision. Losing an associate is distressing, but it’s least of my worries right now. I am afraid my decision to cut close ties with Sir Grayore is bound to have ramifications on your friendship with Ravaena. I hope I am wrong and that I am overestimating how intimately I know the man, however I will still hazard a guess and say he might try to avenge his pride through his daughter..._

Ravaena’s father is deeply involved with the Silver Order. 

Ravaena’s father has betrayed Jeno’s mother. For all those years, he’s been moving behind her back.

From here, he can observe the wispy smoke polluting the air above the sea of students, ascending. A smaller fire is burning within the bounds of his ribcage, and the smoke it effuses stifles his ability to feel the burn to the fullest.

His mother’s enemies are his enemies by default. If his mother doesn’t support the order’s activity, neither should he. A seed of figmental warfare has been planted in the little garden that had priorly only fostered fondness. First Planting, huh.

But settling anger is quickly swept away by regret. Regret of being so unapologetic with his animosity toward his friend, even if it was a solitary reaction. Ravaena is not her father. She’s her own person. She can deviate from his agenda.

However, just because she can doesn’t mean that she will. Hasn’t Jeno been proven of her tolerance towards the organization already? _You’re a noble Altmer, but you’re going askew, and_ _I_ _beg you to consider the Silver Order before it’s too late._ Those were her words. 

But were they really? Possibility exists that they were forced down her throat by a totalitarian hand of her father.

Or, maybe that’s what Jeno wants to believe. That the topic causes her to dither. What if her loyalty to her father is as strong as Jeno’s is to his mother? What then? Can there be a compromise? Can there ever be a compromise…

Jeno’s head dangles down. In his right fist suffocates the crumpled letter. He should sit down at the proximate table and halt his mind which is running a mile a minute. He should stomp out the flame, even if with bare feet.

His eyes bore into the brindled wood of the table as remembrances of Ravaena’s visits pass through. If his mother is right, if Mr. Grayore decides to put an abrupt end to their friendship, if Ravaena complies with his wishes, the manor of Jeno’s mother in Auridon will never see her again. Not her waxen smiles, not her sable feathers.

“Everything okay?”

A chatty voice. Jeno is hosting a private funeral inside his head right now and he can’t recall sending out invitations. But it’s Renjun who’s hunkering down so as to catch the Altmer’s expression, and Renjun’s concern deserves to be acknowledged. 

“Spacing out. That’s it,” he says.

“Hm, okay. Didn’t you say you wanted to volunteer today? The others are already gathering near the gates.”

“I’ll come.”

Renjun straightens his posture and squints down at him. “Let’s go. I’m not liking this,“ using his splayed hand he draws a few circles in the air, “mood surrounding you. Very not festive.”

He has to hand it to the Imperial – his humorous approach is very much an open sesame to Jeno’s tired smile. They walk to the gates; there, a good handful of students and the Master Wizard are already astonishing the townsfolk and other comers from more remote areas with their Restoration tricks. As soon as Jeno arrives, he’s assigned a stout Nord who thrusts out a swollen thumb and judges the Altmer by glaring through creased brows for the whole of the healing process. The man wriggles the mended finger, then squeezes it, _then twists it_ – does everything in his power to test whether the spell was effective. His glare narrows, and he turns on his heel with a loud _hmph!_

So much for offering a free service. Jeno’s outwardly collected stare escorts the Nord who exits through the gate, and he keeps the prickling sensation of irritation under wraps. _So this fellow set foot in the College only for a quick, complimentary fix and had the nerve to sneer at the one who gave it to him._

Next in line is the lively red of Winterhold – the pharmacist with a little boy stuck to her side whose fluff has been dipped in ambers just like hers – and her status as a patient is better beyond comparison. She smiles at him, asks him about his day and doesn’t refrain from complimenting his skill when he remedies the frightful cut on the child’s forearm which he had gained from playing carelessly.

Providing selfless Restoration takes its toll eventually. Six minor traumas later Jeno can feel his physical form drift vaguely. In reserve, he’s still got enough magicka for plus-minus two other patients. Maybe three. He might have to take a restorative nap afterwards if he wants to see the end of the festival.

Jeno is seated on a provided stool, the flat of his hand straightening the wrinkle on his forehead. A yellow like daffodils plaid skirt sweeps the floor as another patient turns up. His eyes rope up the silhouette of the girl, and the scent of daisies swamps his senses. Caria is here. Their hands meet.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks.

But Caria turns her hand over, letting him know she placed it there not for inspection, but for it to hold his. “No, you healed it without flaw. I came here to ask for a dance, if that’s okay with you. You’ve done a lot here already. You deserve to rest. I promise it won’t be anything,” she assures when Jeno hesitates. “All I want is to express my thanks for earlier.”

There are people forming a circle in the center of the courtyard, a few Nords on the sides ushering the rest to join. Jeno’s eyes immediately fly to the Redguard that sticks out like a sore thumb with all his god-given height. Naturally, there’s Donghyuck filling a space in the circle beside him, their arms connected. Jeno quickly spots Jaemin, and after a delayed second he finds Renjun.

Moving a little wouldn’t hurt. He gives in to the pleasant aroma of fresh flowers and allows it to lead him forward. Caria doesn’t let go, and Jeno’s gaze sinks to their tangled hands; it doesn’t bother him, this false display of their relationship, but his fingers start smarting with need to break free once they step into the circle of people. From when he was making the decision and observing the situation, he remembers Donghyuck to be positioned straight ahead of him. But he won’t look, because he doesn’t need confirmation. He won’t look, in case – god forbid – the boy’s awareness is on him.

The euphony of drums, lutes, tambourines, flutes and the clapping of onlookers spin the ring they have all formed with their joined hands. The first part of the dance is quite simple – thanks to Renjun involving him in last year’s festivities, Jeno still remembers some of the moves he had learned – the circle spins in one direction, and the dancers sway their connected arms back and forth.

After some time it splits into four smaller circles and the people inside outstretch their arms toward the sky and let them touch in the middle, forging a flower of sorts. One of the six petals, coincidentally, is Jaemin.

“Are you enjoying yourselves?” he inquires ever so politely.

“We are indeed,” answers Jeno.

At that, Jaemin directs his attention at the girl. “Joroth has been absent for most of today and I was beginning to think he didn’t fancy Renjun’s and my company. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Turns out Miss Caria has completely captivated him,” the Imperial clicks his tongue disapprovingly, but the corners of his lips hike up when the target of his teasing hides her ruddying face by looking down at her feet.

Now, he wouldn’t mind receiving help from Jaemin, if he were courting the girl. The problem is – he isn’t, and these remarks might sour the hitherto comfortable atmosphere. The flower rips, and now they’re linking elbows to dance in rotation, switching partners among the same six people.

Soon enough Jeno is paired with Jaemin. 

“Treberia, I beg you, don’t make this awkward for me,” Jeno whispers harshly just between the two of them.

“Fear not. I’m your wingman tonight, and that means there’s a hundred percent chance of you scoring.”

“That’s the thing. I’m not trying anything.”

Jaemin feigns being puzzled for a fraction of a second – or, maybe it’s an organic reaction, but it’s hard to tell with him. “Really? So you’re entertaining the girl to entertain yourself? I knew it! The nobility of Summerset is just as susceptible to shy promiscuity as the rest of the continent. What a shame – she looked quite smitten with you.”

_Susceptible to what now?_

The ringing echo of the accusation sculpts Jeno’s face into a frown. “I’m sorry, you’re questioning my morals?”

“I’m just telling you all men are cut from the same cloth, doesn’t matter Men or Mer.”

They’ve gone full circle now.; it’s time to part. Anything that leaves the Imperial’s mouth owns one defining quality: indifference. Nonchalance. It’s like he never means the things he says. But not this time. This time was different; there was emotion, although buried, and there was an intensity that only shines through when the one saying the words faithfully believes their factuality.

But why this topic? Why does Jaemin take offence at, as he himself just called it, _shy promiscuity_ , when he had offered to be his wingman, no less?

The last part of the dance is in pairs. Quietly, he wishes he could check who Donghyuck has picked, but he’s been doing so good, keeping that promise of his. He does find out who Renjun’s partner is, however – partially because the Imperial is right behind Caria, but the look of sheer terror he’s presenting Jeno with is what he believes initially caught his attention. With every other girl already linking hands and partnered, Renjun is left to dance with their Destruction master Faralda. While Jeno himself wouldn’t have an issue being in that position, he knows of the Imperial’s cowardly ways and the fierce nature of their teacher, and that’s what makes it so _brilliant_ . 

But the sight of Renjun and his situation does a little more than just amuse him. It also pushes a particular scene to the front of his memory: candles dripping wax on a late December morning inside the Arcanaeum. Jeno had just found that Gaius Treberia, the son of the commander of Penitus Oculatus, is Jaemin’s father, as well as Renjun’s uncle. His friend then, without much secrecy, had divulged piquant information: _Jaemin’s father has remarried four times and is currently in the market. A ladies’ man._

Interesting… A personal distaste for trifling affairs? Jeno would have never imagined the Imperial to advocate for fidelity. Quite the opposite; Jaemin had always seemed fond of games. But what does Jeno know? The two of them have shared cups of Velvet LeChance before, not authenticity of character.

They start dancing once again. Jeno’s memory of the final movement sequence is slightly crippled, and Caria had never danced the way Nords do, so they wind up imitating the other dancers, both of them messing up a few times and having a laugh over it. The dance ends in the Nords whistling and the onlookers clapping.

“So pretty,” the girl compliments the evening sky that falls on them in moving colors, her hold remaining even after the music has ceased. 

Jeno is compelled to verify the promised prettiness by looking up. By now, he’s seen the northern lights an uncountable amount of times, and he’s not nearly as impressed – nor mesmerized – as he was the first, but something feels different right now. 

“Say Miss Caria, have you ever tried touching the lights?” he asks, unsure as to why.

“Touching?” Caria sounds appropriately confused. “No?”

Something feels different, because it is. A silent demand to turn his head right whizzes past, and he listens, semi-aware it could cost him tonight’s promise. To his relief and his dismay, an empty space at his side and irrelevant faces in the distance greet him. Thereafter a treasure hunt starts; Jeno’s eyes search for the emerald green, for the copper of lake water brushed curls, the silver glow of damp skin, and the prevailing elven bronze that washes over the pale shore of human albino. 

“Have you?” the girl who smells like daisies and would never avert her eyes from him in such a blatant manner courteously asks for his attention.

“I have once.”

“How was it?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I didn’t understand it. Do you think there could be a meaning? To touching them?”

She smiles at him like she’s asking where he’s going with this. “Could very well be. It sounds magical. Pardon me, I’m just… a little lost. When you say you touched them – a coin for your thoughts.”

But a coin can only buy a close-mouthed smile, a gentle shake of his head and the diversion of conversation. “It’s nothing, really. Just a silly memory.” He ruptures the touch of their hands.

And the girl knows, she understands their dance has come to an end.

“Thank you for complying with my absurd wish when you didn’t have to,” she begins with a farewell speech, and Jeno sighs internally, knowing very well he doesn’t deserve half the merits she’s about to give him. “It just goes to prove how noble you truly are.”

“Miss Caria–”

“It’s true. Today I was only proven further of how fine Young Master Lorathael’s character is. I was hit with such astonishment when Donghyuck Lumbervale told us you had helped him. Everybody knows there’s bad blood between the two of you, and you had been willing to overlook that. Succoring the lesser is commendable.”

“The lesser?”

The girl evacuates her eyes, finding safety away from Jeno’s, and that marks the moment he realizes his words ringed out like a reprimand.

“I apologize, I–”

“I understood what you meant by that,” Jeno cuts off, regaining himself. “He’s a Bosmer. Personally, I don’t view him as lesser. There would be no bad blood between us if I did.” _But he has underestimated him before and for that there was a pretty price to pay._

Caria thinks for a second, for two, and an agreeable expression illuminates her face. “If it’s you who says he’s worthy of higher respect, I have no reason to doubt it.”

It takes one to know one. This preconceived notion that every other race is inferior is as intrinsic to the Altmer as the light color of their hair or skin. Jeno could never blame this girl for expressing such ideas, for it would be hypocritical – he’s an Altmer, and he breathes and bleeds elven ascendancy the same way she does – but her quick acceptance arouses something undefined yet warm against his ticking lungs. Even if it’s only because it’s coming from another Altmer – because it’s coming from _him_ – she’s still giving up a fragment of her origin, a belief that binds her to Summerset. The same way his mother has opened her doors for the Imperials, and his brother who has given up just as much, fleeing the isles and darkening his golden hair, Caria is showing him that the Altmers are not as consistent as he had thought. And to come to this conclusion he was missing an outsider, an Altmer that wasn’t his family, who could come in and tell him he’s not crazy for thinking twice about an elf of not one, but two different races. And Jeno, he can’t shake the look he had received from the child in the snowy Windhelm, and he can’t shake how sore Donghyuck had looked as he had tried to talk to the little girl. He’s changing, too, he’s _going askew,_ and he’s refusing to hear someone call the Bosmer ‘lesser’. So perhaps this undefined sensation that’s been aroused is hope. Hope that Ravaena is just as inconsistent, and that the conversation the pair will have after this can bring good results.

“I enjoyed dancing with you, Miss Caria,” he says, and he means it – he has never felt more elated granting someone a dance. “Have a good night.”

She curtsies to him.

(...)

Jeno plucks Ravaena out of the courtyard so he can bring her to his sleeping quarters. Something tells him that by addressing the letter he might kick-start the fight Renjun had mentioned before time. But he can’t say he wouldn’t prefer it to begin that way; winning over his friend would prepare him for the future like nothing else.

When they reach their floor, Jeno steps forward to open the door for her, stepping aside so she can enter. First Planting has left a positive impact on her – she’s wearing the shine of someone who had a wonderful time – and he’s regretful that he might cause that shine to rust.

And it rusts in a flash before he can do anything, so much as blink. Ravaena freezes in place like someone just poured a bucket of ice-cold water over her head, grimacing. She turns to Jeno and looks at him like he’s done something _incredibly_ wrong. A panic sets the rhythm of his heart and he opens the door wider so he can look into the room himself and see what caused her deeply-felt disturbance.

On his armchair, flaunting nude legs sits Donghyuck. He addresses their presence by waving at them casually.

The door slams to a close. Jeno rips the wood apart with a vacant stare.

“...Joroth?” Ravaena speaks.

“Maybe we should postpone this to tomorrow,” he says dryly.

“You’re not going to ask him out?”

“Ravaena,” calling her name, he looks at her. “We should talk tomorrow. I’ll walk you to your room.”

“I can walk by myself.”

There it is. The consequence.

“Okay.”

Jeno presses his forehead against the door and closes his eyelids, listens to receding footsteps and a different door clicking shut. May the Altmeri gods forgive him for what he’s about to do.

He wills himself to enter.

He goes straight for the armchair, clasping the armrest on either side. The chair trembles, and the force of it all startles the Bosmer.

“Do you know what you just did?” he seethes, impatient eyes trying to draw the answer out before it’s said.

Donghyuck swallows and parts his lips slightly, allowing the air inside. He continues to breathe through his mouth, the pace of his lungs rising and falling a degree too fast for a resting body. Once Jeno makes that observation, it’s all downhill from there; one single glance throws him down the rabbit hole of noticing every other detail that his fogged mind should not care about. Donghyuck is wearing his white shirt that drops down his thighs like a curtain, unbuttoned at the top, thus creating a window for Jeno where he can ogle the scandalous expanse of feverish skin and admire the way the jade lauds it.

“Took you long enough to come,” Donghyuck says like the past few minutes never even happened. _Oh, so he’s assuming just because Jeno took the liberty of staring that he’s somehow forgiven?_ “I thought you’d bring Caria back, so I had decided to claim the spot first.”

 _Ah_ … 

“You’re this confident I’d choose you over her?”

“You just chose me over Ravaena. Do I need to say more?”

That’s not true. He didn’t choose anyone; he’s simply not cruel enough to humiliate Donghyuck by refusing him in front of another.

Jeno lets go of the armrest and withdraws. He went from mourning his friendship with Ravaena to being reassured not all is lost and therefore climbing this tower in high spirits, to being denied that hope again. She won't take him seriously after this, she won’t.

He’s pacing around the room, hands dragging across his glower. Ravaena isn’t dense – she must already know what the situation at hand is: Jeno is bedding his enemy. She won’t listen to what he has to say tomorrow, she won’t.

A fist meets the tremoring door before Jeno slumps against it; a solitary knock on his composure. “You just… made something that was already difficult impossible,” he manages a vague explanation as they look at each other.

_What do I do with you? Even now that I’m burning with anger, I can’t tell you off. That’s the power you have gained over me._

“Come here,” Donghyuck – no, the king of this stone castle, crowned with twisted pine branches and white ribbons – orders.

Jeno’s back detaches from the door and he takes those labored steps, because the order is above him. Because if he pays enough attention to the words, he can discern the promise of comfort in them, and that’s something his soul is currently crying out into the void for. Once he’s standing directly before the Bosmer, it hits him: it’s Jeno who has crowned him the king, and it’s thanks to him the boy can reign uninterrupted, so it would only make sense if Jeno glorified the one he put in power. He kneels – as a servant should – one knee at a time. And then, in careful succession, he places his religiously cold hand on Donghyuck’s thigh and leans down to do something he’s never done before: he kisses the boy’s knee, softly, without the pressure of anger he’s showing through knitted brows. His lips stay grazing the warmth as he surveys Donghyuck’s reaction. It’s not instantly clear whether the deal was made or broken with this action until Donghyuck blooms, his thighs parting further apart and encouraging Jeno’s lips to continue down the path of his inner thigh. That’s exactly what the Altmer does, one hand gripping the other leg, keeping the map of skin he yet needs to mark accessible for him.

He gets more and more adventurous the further he goes, mouth resorting to sucking, inviting a third color – a deep blue – to come forward and testify that he has explored these lands and is proud of this achievement. Donghyuck’s head droops sideways, a moan in the form of a sigh betraying that he, the landlord, welcomes this kind of conquest.

But Jeno never really learns — this compliance was a tactical retreat all along. Donghyuck’s thighs close, trapping his head in between. “Did you purposely avoid looking at me today?” he confronts.

Jeno thinks he doesn’t have to answer; he can just stop resisting and suffocate while cabined by Donghyuck’s plush thighs. What a lovely end that’d be. And he wouldn’t have to see tomorrow. Joroth Lorathael, age twenty, meets his demise due to being crushed by a multicolored fantasy. Almighty Magnus, please, allow him to die tonight by yanking that last breath out of his throat which he would have spent on something pointless regardless, such as fighting the one smothering him or begging him for a kiss.

Donghyuck snorts above him, though it lacks the strength his usual mockery possesses, and wriggles his hips to emphasize just how helpless the Altmer is. “It was a cute attempt at running away, but we both knew I’d end up in your bed tonight. Nobody can outrun fate. Not even I.”

Jeno emerges from the softest trap he ever has had the luxury of being in, and levels the boy’s gaze. “Very pretentious of you to think your decision is what fate is.”

“But it is. When I put on this necklace, I know what I’m doing that night.”

“If it really possesses that kind of power,” Jeno’s hand sneaks under Donghyuck’s shirt, “maybe I should finally retrieve it from you.” A concept that for some reason had never entered his radar of overanalyzing springs up and contaminates his mind within seconds. “Am I… the only man you show the necklace to?”

“Would it bother you if you weren’t?”

“To a fault,” he admits.

The unreserved confession pleases the Bosmer, albeit he tries to mask it. “Then I wish I could say you weren’t.”

Under the shirt, Jeno’s feathery touches tease the tip and base of Donghyuck’s erection before bending into a ring of fingers that encircles it but does not move. He stretches his other hand out for the pine crown and divests Donghyuck of power. Right now, he feels like he’s the king – he’s already won, he’s on top of the world and his turn to throw orders around has come: “you’ll have to do the work if you want to feel good.”

“I kind of thought you’d want to put it in… since it’s been a while.”

“You want me to?”

It’s important to note that Jeno is asking _not_ because the answer will affect the outcome – it won’t – but because it’ll stroke his ego. The Restoration case had pinched out most of his energy, and then there was the dancing, not to mention the whole ruckus of him lashing out while simultaneously making sure he wasn’t overdoing it. He’s not in the right shape to provide the treatment the boy deserves. But Donghyuck doesn’t know this, and he’s weaponizing his puppy eyes so they plead for him and he doesn’t have to vocally admit he’s signing up to be defiled. 

“Too bad. It’s this or nothing,” with pleasure says Jeno.

“Wow. Is this some kind of a twisted take on payback? Petty doesn’t suit you like it suits me–” 

Oh, he’s quick to pipe down when Jeno removes his touch entirely. 

Donghyuck grabs him by the wrist. “I didn’t choose ‘nothing’.” He returns the hand to where it was, but Jeno’s fingers don’t curve this time. The boy ruts against the flat of his palm desperately, huffing. “Don’t be an asshole,” he groans, “I really need this right now.”

“How bad?”

A glare is sent his way immediately. Donghyuck attempts to bend Jeno’s fingers, employing his own strength to no avail.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” the Bosmer sets his arm free.

But Jeno doesn’t protest against a free show. He lets Donghyuck do his thing, but his hands grow restless over time. So they do what they have learned to do best; they venture, they caress. His willowy legs, the sides of his hips, his narrowing torso, his chest that heaves rhythmically. A revelation lights up his mind that had been stuck in the blind of the dark for a terrifyingly long time. What if the world is so unaccepting of _half-breeds_ not because their existence defies the ethics of nature, but because people are in the know about how dangerous they truly are. How damaging their soft, poly-colored skin is to a healthy mind, how a single touch erodes the person’s rationale.

“You were right saying it was fate. There was no way you would have slipped away from my grasp looking as pretty as you did.”

Donghyuck’s eyelids flutter shut. His head slacks backwards, exposing his neck. “Liar,” he breathes out. “If you really thought I was pretty, you’d be fucking me right now.”

Jeno goes in for the kill: he affixes his mouth to Donghyuck’s neck. A faint vibration can be felt every time a sounding gasp is pushed out and rubs against the interior of his throat. Jeno is gentle at first, but his kisses develop more abusive when he reaches the neckline. He retracts his lips, and admires the little pools of color that gradually take shape and dot Donghyuck’s collarbones; he’s never kissed someone’s skin purple before. In Summerset Isles, vivid hues are left for the gardens, the luxuriant grasslands, and porcelain skin of the nobles must remain free of change or ache. Since they have gone for a more extreme pain than this in the past – what’s a couple bruises against magical burns – Jeno assumed it would be okay to breach that convention.

And this assumption works in his favor. By now, Donghyuck should have asked Jeno to make use of Destruction, and he would have had to give him no for an answer.

“I want you to get on top,” he says.

Jeno has stolen Donghyuck’s crown, and now he has his throne, too. The Bosmer straddles his lap, keeps his buttocks high in the air, one arm finding purchase on the headrest, the other – toying with his irritated cock.

The Altmer assumes the role of the audience; after all, the most crucial function of a monarch is to witness the outcome of executive order. This is how Donghyuck looks, this is what he _sounds_ like when Jeno isn’t there to scratch the itch. Gorgeous.

Somewhere along the line he submits to his inclination for touching the boy’s skin, and caresses the back of his thighs. He spanks Donghyuck. Is there a more visually pleasing sight on the plane of this realm than two tan legs shaking right before culmination? Only volcanoes erupt this grandiose.

Donghyuck, who’s been resting his shoulders against the top of the armchair and singing more to himself than to Jeno, pushes up weakly to give him a look that speaks uncertainty.

“Go ahead,” the Altmer permits.

And so he strokes himself until he spills. On Jeno’s special garbs he only wears on special occasions… _As long as it’s not his apprentice robes._

Much as every other natural disaster out there, Donghyuck relapses into silence after raging. A serene noise that sits pliant in Jeno’s arms.

“I don’t know what I’ve done,” he whispers after a while, answering a bygone question Jeno has forgotten. “But I don’t regret doing it. Ravaena dislikes me, and I’ve never even given her a reason to. So wouldn’t it be better if there was one?”

Jeno doesn’t respond. With the tip of his index finger, he draws a daisy on Donghyuck’s hip.

“Donghyuck.”

“Mm?”

“What do you want from me?”

One second passes quietly. Two. Three. Ten.

“What do you think?”

 _Nothing_.

But Jeno forces himself to think about it.

“The warrant?”

Wrong answer. Donghyuck dons the cloak of defense.

“You’re kidding. That was a joke, right?” Invisible needles pinch the skin of his forehead. “You think I need to use my body to get what I want? Is that what you think of me?”

“That’s not what I said–”

“But that’s what you think. You think I’m sleeping with you in hopes that you might willingly give it up. Let’s get one thing straight,” he cuts the space between their faces in half. “I don’t need you. If anything, _you_ need me.”

Jeno doesn’t doubt the legitimacy of that statement. It’s the first half that strikes him as odd.

“Is that why you’re here? Because you don’t need me?” he counters.

Donghyuck attempts to escape his embrace – in return, Jeno tightens it.

“I really didn’t mean it that way,” he feels obliged to explain, because _he really didn’t_. He knows best that Donghyuck doesn’t need to be in his good graces to win.

“Save your breath. It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a shit about what some Altmer thinks of me.”

But Jeno doesn’t loosen the hold he has on Donghyuck.

“Let go,” he huffs angrily.

He has no other option but to comply. The Bosmer wouldn’t have stayed either way, with or without mistakes made in the stupor of the night. _Because the morning comes to take him away._

And he’s left to occupy the crumbling throne by himself, with no one to envy his heavy crown. Jeno’s eyes drift to the brass casket. Tonight his prose will flow a river of melancholy.

* * *

They meet atop the wall.

Is this what it’s like to walk down the aisle of death and be aware of the fate that awaits you? Similar to how Donghyuck knows what lies in store for him when he puts on the jade, Jeno can foresee that these steps he’s taking are no more than the gait of a dead man.

Snowflakes, so light and playful, swirl around him, changing direction at the whim of the wind. A rather pale day.

And this paleness calls attention to Ravaena’s dark garbs, which too aren’t immune to the currents swiping the air. She tears her eyes away from the Sea of Ghosts and watches Jeno approach her, her long hair obscuring her face, but not taking away from the sadness present in that gaze. She’s watching the dead man’s gait, mourning beforehand. 

“Your father betrayed my mother,” Jeno announces as soon as he arrives.

“He never betrayed her. It was in her best interest what he did – what he’s been doing.”

Jeno’s eyes waft away from her face. He doesn’t want to perceive a friend he cares about while she’s justifying something that has hurt his mother. “It was betrayal. She’ll now try to distance herself from him as much as possible,” he reveals.

“Joroth, you need to tell her to reconsider. Surely you understand how serious this is! Write to her, explain how her course of action will affect everyone. Do something!”

“No. I don’t think I will. She’s already made the decision.”

He has already withheld important information for the sake of their friendship. His brother had passed him the responsibility to take care, to ensure the safety and prosperity of their mother. Jeno has put that at risk before, and Ravaena is asking him to do it again. She’s asking too much of him, way too much.

“Then it’s all over!” Ravaena cries out. “How can you act so nonchalant?”

He looks at her.

“What’s over? I can’t tell what you’re worried about – your father’s welfare or our friendship.”

“Both,” she says without hesitation, her demeanor growing colder with every crystal that settles on her. “I’ve been putting my best efforts into making this work. But I can’t keep on defending you anymore. I had overlooked your connections to those Imperials. I had dismissed your so blatantly unconcerned attitude towards the warrant. I did all of that because of the potential you had in you to be a proper Altmer unlike your family. I had always put in a good word for you in conversations with my father and other Altmers, but it seems I was only embarrassing myself. Joroth, what did I even see last night? Don’t tell me you’re actually intimate with that half-breed. Don’t tell me you’re abasing yourself so harshly.”

“I would be obliged if you refrained from calling him that.”

She looks at him like he’s missing a head. “What? A half-breed?”

“It’s derogatory.”

Ravaena shakes her head, the gesture dripping with the highest rate disapproval. “Since you’re not denying it, I’ll assume what I accused you of is true. I don’t know what happened to you, but it hurts to see you disrespecting yourself like this. That Bosmer has done nothing to deserve your support. Do I need to remind you he has the Blade of Sacrifice? He’s standing first in line to get the warrant, and that’s what he’ll do. When he claims it and you’re left with your shattered Altmeri pride, you’ll come to me the same way you had all those years ago. You’ll get to see that I was right and that I tried to rescue your dignity.”

She said she doesn’t know what happened to him, but Jeno can’t even recognize the person who’s spitting the fire. Her tongue has morphed into a sharp spike aiming straight for his heart, a lethal toxin smeared around its length.

“But there’s still time to change this,” Ravaena double backs, the tone of her voice hinting at a compromise, not fully hostile. ”If you just… reflected on your actions and joined the Silver Order–”

“I can’t do that. You know I can’t.”

“And the rule goes that you are either with the Order, or against it.”

_Why does it have to be an either-or situation?_

“That may be true. But I’m not against _you_ , Raven.”

“I’m not Raven. That’s not my name. I’m Ravaena Grayore and you should address me as such. I will no longer be lenient with you butchering the Altmeri protocol.”

Out of all hurtful things uttered, this one thrust the stake in the furthest. The reason perhaps being how personal it was, an agreement shared between the two of them only, and she shut this familiarity down in cold blood.

Ravaena is the first to move from her position and toward the exit. She halts just before passing him to say her final words. “So I will be anticipating your deepest regret.”

And she leaves him in the mess she’s made, in the jumble of thoughts she’s created. Jeno had girded his loins, fully aware this conversation would not go smoothly, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this. It was too bitter, too honest, too eye-opening.

A glimmer of hope amidst slough – that’s how Ravaena had perceived him throughout their friendship. And she had been nurturing that glimmer with kind words and kinder deeds in hopes of it growing into a star one day, as bright as Azura’s. Instead, it had drowned in the black of the lake back then in Morrowind.

(...)

Next thing he knows he’s banging on the door to Renjun’s sleeping quarters.

The one to open it is Yukhei, mid-sentence and laughing, attention still captured by something or someone from inside the room. He makes a surprised face once he turns to acknowledge Jeno.

“Oh, what’s good?”

“Is Donghyuck in there?”

The Redguard disappears behind the door again, not quite closing it, a narrow vertical stripe of morning light splitting Jeno in half. _Are you in here,_ he hears the student say.

The door moves back.

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“Can you tell him to…” Jeno’s request trails off, because the Bosmer appears from behind his friend to check who’s at the doorstep and seeking his name.

Donghyuck arches a brow.

“Can we talk for a bit? Outside.”

It sounds extremely ominous, Jeno is aware. Donghyuck reacts accordingly, his eyes searching for clues on the wall to his right as he seems to pick at his memory to see if there’s anything that has happened and is worth discussing in private.

He steps out, shutting the door at his back. “If you’re here to apologize, I already told you–”

“I know – you don’t care what I think of you. I’m saving that breath, and that’s not why I’m here.”

When they walk out of the tower, into the courtyard, Donghyuck prefaces: “just make it quick. Yukhei and I are going to the town soon–”

Jeno rudely interrupts the boy by seizing his face and pulling him in for a hurried kiss – forgive him for he doesn’t care what Donghyuck will do later today or tomorrow. All he knows is _now_ , and now is when he needs the blessing that comes in the shape of earthy yet celestial warmth. At first, there’s light resistance that comes with suddenness and shock, and the reciprocation is weak. Jeno retreats, yet his hands never leave the boy’s face, his thumb stroking his cheek like he’s trying to wipe the layer of dust and bring out the shine underneath. Donghyuck’s winsome eyelashes collect the offerings of the flaking sky, the lingering confusion visible in how big his dark eyes have become.

Temptation to dive back in wins, and he links their lips a second time.

_Kiss me with a hunger so deep-seated, as if you’ve never been kissed before, as if you’ve been craving this your whole life. Kiss me like you need me the same way that I need you. Kiss me as yourself, the one who will be the cause of my undoing, the essence behind madness._

_And I’ll kiss you like a fool who doesn’t know his name._

It feels correct somehow, to kiss Donghyuck, to sample him from inside where dormant lies the genesis of all evil and good. It feels orthodox to discount the basic principles of Altmeri truth which has led their civilization towards light for hundreds – no, _thousands_ of years. In the eyes of the ultimate bliss and oblivion, it feels lawful to be a renegade.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as Ravaena had predicted for Jeno to taste regret. Just not the kind she was talking about.

“I regret not fucking you yesterday night,” he mumbles against the lips he had seen in his reveries for the entirety of last month.

Donghyuck stares at him wordlessly, focus altering between Jeno’s eyes, then back to his mouth, and he plunges to initiate another kiss. Everything Jeno was pleading for – the long-standing starvation and equal desperation – is condensed into a moment of their lips mauling each other and their tongues disputing the lead. His arms come down to secure Donghyuck’s waist, and he keeps on pressing him closer, impossibly so, like he’s a serpent choking his prey, and there’s no telling whether the Bosmer comes out of this in one piece or two.

Jeno realizes he had never truly identified with the title of Lorathael – the name that decolors already sickly complexions of the Altmers from the mainland – until now. He was missing the key element: a deviation. Something that would make him different from other High Elves; a reason for them to pelt him with critical utterances of mind and mouth.

Now, he’s found it. He’s found Donghyuck and he’s found himself in tandem.

The boy breaks away slowly, steadily, and for the first ten seconds after splitting he looks like he just might close the gap separating their faces one more time. Then, post-awkwardness kicks in, repelling that plan. Donghyuck’s hands nestle over his crotch bashfully, eyes brushing the tiled courtyard, and his glossed lips rub together as though evaluating the heated gesture. He looks up.

“Is that all?” Donghyuck knocks together a question and tries to pass it off as natural, but fails to hide the way his wind jitters.

“Yes.”

And Jeno thinks his heart wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand the sight of a fluster, if it wasn’t for the pain Ravaena had brought. Now, he needs it, all of it, and he won’t lose a frame of this moment to averted eyes. Oh, how ignorant the boy is to it all – he just saved Jeno in more ways than one.

“I’ll go then,” is what Donghyuck decides, but stalls when it comes to acting on said decision. Before he can vanish inside the tower, he adds: “I made you say _fuck_ , by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kiss kiss fall in love.
> 
> i'm going to dox myself real quick. i'm from lithuania, and i took inspo for the traditional clothing and dances from my culture. also, the whole burning a dummy of a woman deal is taken straight from my memories as well. here we have this pagan holiday that is slightly similar to halloween, during which we burn "morry" in hopes of driving winter away. here's fun trivia – lithuania was the last country in europe to let go of its paganism, resulting in a century-long war with the crusaders. i'm sure they fought hard so some lithuanian pipsqueak 500 years later could insert a fragment of their heritage into her enemies to lovers nohyuck fic.
> 
> [here's](https://curiouscat.qa/zzzat) my cc.


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